


Crash and Burn

by MrsJohnReese



Category: Sons of Anarchy
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-02
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-09 00:33:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 56,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27355804
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MrsJohnReese/pseuds/MrsJohnReese
Summary: Forced to change her name, and leave her home after witnessing a crime, Reagan McCann finds herself thrown, head-first, into a world that makes what she saw in her home town seem like child's play by comparison. Instead of running for the hills, though, something seems to make her determined to plant her feet on the ground and refuse to budge. Or rather, not something, but someone
Relationships: Tara Knowles/Jax Teller, Tig Trager/Original Female Character(s)
Kudos: 12





	1. Rrelocation

"Reagan, have you heard a word I've just said?" The voice resonates in my mind out of the clear blue, causing my heartrate to jump, while a cold sweat breaks out upon my palms. A part of me still can't believe this is even happening—that a late-night stroll would lead to my eventual relocation. That I would be forced to leave my home, and everything I had known for twenty years behind in the blink of an eye. Once again, I find that I am falling prey to the desire to curse my own curiosity, seeing as that very part of my nature is what got me into this mess to begin with. But of course almost as soon as the desire hits, I am forcing it to the back of my mind, my eyes turning to rest on the worried features of the man that stands beside me as I force myself to reply with a nod, and a resigned cast to my tone.

"Yeah. Yeah, sorry, Rex. I'm just trying to get used to all this, that's all."

"I know you are, kid. But we're going to keep you out of this, okay?" The older man assures me, the weight of a warm palm coming to rest on my back so that it might rub in soothing circles against the fabric of my t-shirt bringing a faint smile to my lips, even in spite of my growing apprehension, "None of this is gonna touch you."

"I know. I trust you."

"That's what I like to hear."

"I figured you might," I manage, moving out from beneath the protective stance of my companion, and chewing idly at my lower lip for a moment before leaning my hip against the nearby edge of a table, "So—this town you're sending me to—"

"Charming."

"Yeah. Charming. It as nice as the name alone suggests?"

"It's got its fair share of problems," Rex admits, watching me carefully for any sort of reaction at all, and very obviously making an effort to reign in his amusement as he catches the way in which my shoulders seem to slump just a bit even in spite of my desire to avoid it, "But it's remote enough where you can keep a low profile, and create a new life for yourself."

"That's good to know."

"Is that all that it is?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean is that all you have to say about it? Seems like a woman of your caliber might have a few more questions."

"What else can I possibly ask, Rex?" I demand, my hands falling to my sides in obvious exasperation as I prop my bottom on the edge of the table, and take to swinging my legs above the floor, my eyes glued on my sneakers the entire time, "Whether I like it or not, I've got to do this, so there's really no point grilling you about it."

"That's the voice of a defeated victim. That's not you, Reagan."

"Seems like it is me, now."

"Only because you've decided to roll over and play dead," Rex snaps, startling me with the sudden vehemence in his words, and effectively diverting my attention from my shoes, at least for the time being, "What the hell happened to the little badass that had enough balls to try and get in the middle of a drug deal gone bad, huh?"

"She nearly got herself killed, as I recall, and now she's got to move half-way across the continent to avoid finishing the job."

"Well she'd better damned well make a reappearance soon, or she may as well go back to that alley and let the dealer finish the job."

"Way to soften the blow," I quip, aware, at least on some level, that Rex is probably right, though that does not entirely succeed in taking the sting out of his words, regardless, "Look, I know this is the right thing to do. I know it is. I just—"

"You don't particularly like the idea of leaving everything you ever knew behind you in the dust," Rex supplies, watching for my predictable nod of confirmation, and sending me what I can only describe as an encouraging smile before going on "Nobody does, sweetheart. That's what makes us human."

"Maybe I don't want to be human, then."

"You and me both, kid."

"You think next time I get an idea this hair-brained, you'll be able to step in before it comes to my being forced to move?" I tease, hoping that this attempt at humor will temper any potential offense my companion might have taken over my mood, and surly remarks just moments prior. I don't blame him—not really, no matter how I may wish that the situation were that simple. And although I know that he is every bit as uncertain over this entire affair as I am, I would be a fool to pretend that I could be in safer hands…

No matter how much he might pretend otherwise, I know for a fact Rex Donovan is damned good at his job, and that I really don't stand a chance of convincing myself that there is anyone else better suited to get me out of dodge before the world falls down around my ears.

"I think I might be able to manage that," Rex replies, a conspiratorial grin toying at the edges of his mouth, while he simultaneously reaches out to nudge me in the shoulder in retaliation for my retort, "Just so long as you make sure you keep yourself safe. Think you can do that?"

"I think so, yeah."

"Well then, why don't we see about getting you acclimated to your new look? You know it won't do having you acting like a big-city girl when you're supposed to be born and raised on a farm."

Leave it to Rex to create a new identity for me that makes me every bit as regressive as the people taking up residence in the town that will soon become my new home…

…


	2. Meeting the Neighbors

"So—what do you think?"

"What do I think?" I repeat, pursing my lips and folding my arms across my chest as I take in the tiny lot that my feet have just planted themselves upon, and the single-level house that rests therein, "It's—cute?"

"I can't tell if you're being sarcastic, or telling the truth, right now."

"Honestly? Neither can I."

"Better get used to it, honey," Rex advises, moving so that he can stand at my side, and looping an arm haphazardly around my shoulders so that he can pull me against his side, "It's home."

"And where are you going to be?" I inquire, silently cursing the slight tremor in my voice, and clearing my throat in hopes that perhaps that simple gesture alone will prevent my companion from noticing, "They ah—they told me you would be staying in-state."

"Yeah, I will be. Right now, they've got me in an apartment complex a few blocks over. But I imagine I'll be here more often than not."

"People might start to talk, you know."

"Let 'em. Isn't that what this is all about?" Rex counters, squeezing me just a bit closer to his sturdy frame, and just as quickly relinquishing his hold so that he can head back towards the moving van that he left idling in the street, "We're here to build you a new life."

"Yeah. Yeah, I know."

"Think you should go over to the local hospital once you get settled," He continues, seemingly oblivious to the hesitation in my response, as all of his attention seems, at least for the moment, to be firmly rooted in opening the rear door of the moving van so we can start the task of carting my things inside, "See about that opening on the sign posted out front."

"And you?"

"Me? I always wanted to try tending bar—"

Unable to resist the urge to laugh at the utter ridiculousness in his statement, I find that I am heading back down the driveway towards the van to get to work, myself, my hands twisting my hair into a knot at the back of my head so that it won't get in the way while I move. Naturally, I am still plagued by uncertainty—by nerves, and the nagging suspicion that even this drastic act will not be enough to keep the consequences of my actions at bay. But in spite of that, and the lingering feeling of dread that seems to have taken up permanent residence in my stomach as a result, I am also well-aware that I am not alone in this…

Rex has uprooted his entire world, as well, and no matter how much I may want to succumb to the self-pity and wallowing that seems inherent with this sort of drastic life change, I find I am unable to do anything other than manage a faint smile as I watch him hefting one of the heavier boxes out of the back of the moving van, and move to follow suit.

…

"You two need any help?" A voice inquires, the sound causing me to turn in the act of opening the door to my new home so that I can carry a box of my mom's antique dishes inside. Almost automatically, the owner of that voice is beside me, holding the door for me so that I no longer have to balance the box haphazardly on my knee to free up my own hand to hold it open—and although my heartrate has risen exponentially at the mere thought of any interaction with a stranger, and one that I can tell is half-covered in tattoos to boot, I cannot help but manage a small smile in gratitude for his gesture, one brow lifting as I register his almost immediate and genuine grin in response.

"Yeah—thanks," I finally reply, only stepping inside far enough to place the box on the floor, so that I can turn back and extend a hand toward the stranger in hopes of making amends for any wayward expressions that may have crossed my face before I could stop them, "Ellen Shore."

God, but using my middle name, and my mother's maiden name feels odd…

"Nice to meet you, Ellen. Opie Winston. Me and my wife, Donna, and the kids live across the street."

"Opie?"

"Yeah—nickname my friends gave me ages ago," My neighbor explains, a short laugh escaping, and surprising me by prompting one of my own in return, "Didn't take long for me to start preferring it to what my mama called me."

"I know the feeling," I confess, my nose wrinkling just a bit as I find myself straying back to my first memory of demanding to know how in the hell my mother came up with my own name when I was a teenager, "Moms have odd taste sometimes."

"No kidding. Though I can't see what you have to complain about."

"Oh? Having a name that makes you sound like a ninety-year-old grandma doesn't make the cut?"

Opie and I both succumb to our own laughter, then, the sound apparently piquing Rex's interest, and causing him to emerge from the back of the house, his expression guarded as he moves to stand beside me. For a moment, he simply stands there, one hand falling to the small of my back as he sizes up the newcomer as though he thinks the guy would wear his intentions on his sleeve. But before I can summon the wherewithal to elbow him as unobtrusively as I can in the stomach to get him to ease up a bit, he is extending his own hand to shake Opie's, his expression slowly relaxing while he speaks.

"Rex Taylor."

"Opie Winston. Was just tellin' your wife, here, me and my family live across the street."

"Oh we—we're not married," Rex begins, the ease with which he settles into an almost embarrassed laugh while simultaneously looping his arm around my shoulders causing me to shake my head just a bit, before I come to the realization that he is stooping just a bit to place his lips on my temple in a gentle kiss, "Just ah—just real good friends."

"Good to know," Opie replies, something in the knowing look that passes over his features causing me to duck my head down to glance at my shoes, my teeth worrying at my lower lip while a flush adorns my cheeks, "You need any help with the rest of those boxes, man?"

"Sure. Yeah, man, thanks," Rex agrees, startling me with his apparent acceptance of a stranger's help, and causing me to risk a glance his way with one brow quirked in obvious surprise, "This little sprite can only lift so much, ya know."

"Hey!"

"What? Wouldn't want you pulling a muscle on me this early in the game—"

Aware of the intended implications behind his remark, and finding that the flush on my cheeks is only deepening, I manage an exaggerated roll of the eyes before turning to head back towards the van for some of the smaller boxes, the sound of scuffing against the pavement behind me indicating that both Opie and Rex have decided to do the same. And although I am still unable to fight against my embarrassment over Rex's most recent insinuation, I find that I am falling prey to the smallest sensation of relief as I realize the two men behind me have fallen into their own conversation as they heft one of the larger items from the back of the van…

In spite of my near to constant fear of loneliness, it would seem I might have just made a friend.

…

A few hours later finds the moving van completely emptied, and Opie and Rex situated in the den working at setting up the flat screen, my attempts to offer my own assistance falling on deaf ears no matter how much I may wish otherwise. Left to my own devices, I find that it doesn't take me that long to set to the task of unpacking some of the boxes that are labelled for the kitchen, the soft sound of chatter and the occasional laugh coming from the other room proving to be far more comforting than I could have anticipated. Before I know it, I'm softly humming along to the music that wafts from the speakers of the clock radio I placed on top of the kitchen table, my mind wandering in a hundred different directions at once with no particular aim in sight. And although a part of me still does not trust this newfound sense of relaxation, I am determined to simply roll with it, a soft smile gracing my lips as I hear the telltale sound of the television switching on, followed by muted footfalls signifying someone is entering the kitchen to inform me of their success.

"We got it, El."

"My heroes," I quip, leaning up on tiptoe to place the last of the plates into the nearby cupboard above the sink, and turning on a heel after closing the door to glance at Rex in the flesh, "I suppose you two would like to claim some sort of reward?"

"Food might not be a bad idea. Maybe some beer, too."

"Pizza sound alright?"

"Those would be the words of a girl after my own heart," Rex replies, closing the distance between us, and flicking at the knot of hair tied at the back of my head, thus earning himself a retaliatory swipe at his stomach in response, "Want me to go get it?"

"No. No, you stay here and continue your male bonding," I tease, my smile making the contentment I feel over his having found some sort of common ground with Opie in spite of his initial misgivings obvious as I worm out from between his frame, and the kitchen counter so that I can reach for my purse where it rests beside the radio on the table, "I can go grab it."

"You sure?"

"Yeah, Rex, I'm sure. I'm thinking I can handle walking to a place that's only a block away."

"Take your cell," Rex orders, reaching for the device where it rests on the kitchen counter, and handing it to me with a no-nonsense expression that has me biting my lower lip to keep from laughing out loud, "Call me if you run into any trouble."

"Sure thing, boss. If a pizza-burglar comes along, you'll be my first call."

"Nice one, smart ass."

"I thought so."

Dodging out of the kitchen before Rex can retaliate for my obvious attempt at downplaying my own nervousness over the idea of venturing out alone, I peek into the den for a moment, Opie's almost automatic answering wave causing me to respond in kind before I speak.

"Going for a pizza—any preferences on toppings?"

"You don't have to feed me, Ellen—"

"It's the least I can do. You've put in more work than I have getting me moved in, by the looks of it."

"Well in that case, I guess I wouldn't say no to pepperoni and mushroom," Opie supplies, reaching into his back pocket, and lifting a brow almost immediately as I hold out a hand to stop him in his tracks.

"Nope. I've got this."

"You sure?"

"Definitely. You think your wife and kids would want to join us?" I inquire, surprising myself with the readiness of my request, and yet not finding it within my power to regret the inquiry, regardless.

"Sure. I can run over and ask Donna right now. She'll probably be thrilled to not have to cook tonight."

"Okay then. I'll be right back."

"Don't get lost on the way—" Rex hollers, a laugh echoing behind me as I stick my tongue out at him before turning to head towards the front door. Rifling in my purse as I step out into the surprising brightness of the evening sunlight, I manage to locate my sunglasses, and don them while walking down the sidewalk, a slight breeze lifting a few loose strands of hair away from my face in the process. I can't really explain it—the startling conclusion that flits across my mind that maybe this enforced move across the country won't be all bad—but even in the face of my lingering uncertainty that it might just be too good to be true, I force myself to ignore that particular negative vibe, my thoughts instead turning towards the simplicity of the walk to the pizzeria, while my stomach gives off a rather loud rumble in anticipation.

Every single thing I learned while still in school about a patient's outlook having a tremendous impact on their clinical outcomes seems to have an eerie applicability to my own situation as it stands right now, and although I instinctively recoil at the idea of considering myself as a 'patient' in this case, I cannot help but recognize the similarities, nevertheless.

…

"So where are you two from?" Donna asks, abandoning the crust of the piece of pizza she had been nursing for the past few minutes, and allowing her eyes to stray towards where Opie and Rex are seated on the sofa, engrossed in a game of Go Fish with her two kids while she waits for my reply. In truth, I am overwhelmingly grateful that she has chosen to avoid the usual course of staring at me until I provide an answer to her inquiry, particularly as it gives me ample opportunity to school my facial features into something that I hope resembles open sincerity—

To say that I am anything less than anxious over my first try at reciting the backstory that Rex and I created for the two of us would have been a gross understatement.

"Pennsylvania," I state, swallowing past the sudden sensation of my heart lodging in my throat, and reaching forward to snag the beer I had barely tasted for want of anything better to do with my hands, "Honey Brook, to be exact."

"Never heard of it."

"That doesn't surprise me. We're chronic small-towners."

"You say that like it's a bad thing," Donna laughs, her brow furrowing for a moment as she turns her gaze towards me, while her fingers pick apart at the lone pizza crust that remains on her plate, "There's something to be said for knowing who you can count on, you know."

"Yeah. Yeah, I know."

"You still have family back there? In Honey Brook?"

"My dad passed a few years ago. Mom still owns the family farm, though," I begin, watching Donna's reaction as carefully as I dare, and finding myself rather pleased that her expression does not seem to indicate any doubts over my sincerity, "I was always closer to my dad, though."

"Opie too."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," Donna confirms, her expression clouding over for a moment, and consequently piquing my curiosity as a result, "His relationship with his mom has been strained since he was just a kid."

"At least he had his dad, I guess—"

"You could say that."

Aware of how her welcoming smile has faded, the more we talk about her husband and his family, I find that I am glancing towards Opie on my own, my brow furrowing as I try to discern exactly why his wife's mood has shifted so quickly. It would be a lie to say that I am not curious, though I am not quite willing to risk the tentative foundation of our acquaintance by pressing Donna with any further questions. And half in an effort to redirect our conversation to a less sensitive topic, I find that I am clearing my throat before attempting to speak, aware of the way that Donna's attention has once again flicked towards Opie, Rex, and her children as I do so.

"You know of any other good restaurants around here?"

"The diner's not half bad," She answers, shifting just a bit on the sofa cushion, and regarding me with a questioning look for a moment before going on, "You and Rex don't cook?"

"I do when I have the time. But if I can get in at St. Thomas, I may not have the time if it's anything like where I used to work back home."

"You're a doctor, then?"

"First year resident, actually," I confess, pausing just long enough for another sip of beer, and wincing as I realize my delay in drinking it has caused the liquid to warm to room temperature, "We saw the sign out front when we passed the hospital driving in."

"Any idea what specialty you'll choose?"

"Right now? Surgery. But that might change—"

"Sounds pretty intense," Donna states, sending me a small smile while she reaches for her own bottle of beer, the fingers of one hand picking at the label almost of their own accord before she elaborates, "We could use a few people like you around here."

"You think so?"

"I know so."

"Well I'm glad someone thinks so," I admit, leaning back against the sofa cushions, and propping one foot on the edge of the table before me in an attempt at making myself comfortable before the inevitable food and beer coma sets in, "Not sure I'll get the job, though. Most small-town hospitals prefer to take one of their own over foreign blood, or at least that's what it seems like to me."

"Maybe 'foreign blood' is just what they need, though. Too much of the same thing isn't always a good idea."

"Thanks. Trust me, I appreciate the sentiment."

"Any time," Donna assures, once again sending me a smile, before placing her empty beer bottle back upon the table, and standing so that she can stretch stiff muscles, "Would it be awful of Ope and I to head out now? The kids have school tomorrow, and there's still a few things I need to wrap up at home, too—"

"No, not at all. We should do this again some time."

"Definitely. It was great meeting you, Ellen."

"You too, Donna," I reply, moving to stand as well, and becoming almost immediately aware that our combined movements have gained the attention of both Rex and Opie, thus giving me leave to address them both directly, "You boys get enough pizza?"

"I think we can split the rest," Rex says, the predictability of his reply causing me to laugh while I skirt around the table, and move towards where he is seated at the nearby table as Donna shifts to stand at her husband's side, "That alright with you, Winston?"

"Fine by me."

"That's—predictable," Donna states, dropping a kiss on Opie's temple, and emitting a soft shriek as he uses her proximity to tug her down onto his lap, "If you're not careful, Ellen, he might just help Rex eat you out of house and home."

"I see my girl's already been feeding you tales about my habits—"

"Only because the tales are true," I retort, flushing at Rex's term of endearment, and yet not finding myself capable of resisting him as he stands and pulls me against his side in one fluid motion. No matter how long we do this, I don't think I'll ever get used to the ease with which Rex implies all sorts of things about our relationship, such as it is—

I suppose, though, that if it helps keep our cover intact at the end of the day, I'll just have to accept it and take it in stride. Particularly as our ability to maintain a sufficiently pleasant livelihood, and keep our bodies above the ground may very well depend on it.

…


	3. Sidewalk Showdown

A few days later, I find myself stepping out of the main vestibule of St. Thomas hospital, my suit jacket slung over my arm while I lift my free hand to shade my eyes from the glare of the afternoon sunlight. A warm breeze wafts against my skin, causing me to shiver just a bit as gooseflesh breaks out on the exposed skin of my legs in response to the difference in temperatures between the chilly interior of the hospital, and where I am standing, now. And although I am reluctant to admit it, I cannot help but feel the slightest bit of encouragement over how my impromptu interview had ended, a faint smile toying with my lips as I step away from the hospital doors and head off down the walkway.

I'm not usually one for senseless optimism, but I can honestly say at this point, if I don't end up with the job after how well I would like to think the interview went, I'll be sincerely surprised.

The sensation of my cell buzzing against my stomach soon has me pausing so that I can fish it out of the pocket of the suit jacket that is still draped over my arm, a faint sigh of amusement escaping as I recognize the number scrolling across the screen. In seconds, I find that I am emitting a soft laugh, my gaze drifting up and down the street for a moment before I determine there are no approaching vehicles in the vicinity, and jog across to the sidewalk opposite where I stand.

"Hey, Rex—"

"Hey there, yourself, champ. How'd it go?"

"Alright, I think," I reply, heading towards the adjacent intersection, and readjusting my purse strap where it rest across my shoulder before elaborating further, "They said they'd talk it over with the hospital board, and get back to me in a few days."

"That's great! What would you say to dinner, tonight, to celebrate?"

"Actually, that's what I was just about to ask you. Thinking about stopping by the grocery store since I got out a bit earlier than I expected."

"Steak and potatoes?" Rex inquires, something in the hopeful cast to the question causing me to roll my eyes in both exasperation and amusement, though I know that he obviously stands no chance of knowing it, "I've been having a craving—"

"Why does that not surprise me?"

"Because you know me too well."

"Yeah. About that," I quip, sharing in Rex's laughter, and shaking my head a bit in hopes of getting one of the strands of loose hair that has blown in front of my face to get out of my line of sight, "How's it going at your apartment?"

"Boring. You'd be surprised how easy it is to unpack when you don't have that much to begin with."

"You think you could swing by and pick me up from the store around five, then? Not sure I can drag all the bags home on my own."

"Your wish is my command, my lady," Rex answers, a grin apparent in his tone, even though I cannot see his face, "You sure you don't want me to get you now? We could pick out the steaks together—"

"I think I'm capable of finding them on my own, hotshot," I retort, rounding the corner by the local pawn shop, and heading towards the grocery store that rests on the corner a few blocks ahead, "See you in a few."

"Yeah. See you in a few."

Once I have succeeded in ending the call, I stow my phone safely back in my jacket pocket, and proceed down the sidewalk, occasionally dodging a pedestrian or two while I move. The sound of car engines, idle chatter, and the occasional slam of doors reaches my ears, providing an interesting backdrop to what might have otherwise been a very peaceful morning. And although the reality of being out on my own for the first time after the incident that enforced this little cross country move in the first place is causing tiny shivers to roll up and down my spine, I cannot help but revel in the breeze and the sunlight, regardless, my attention turning to the street corner ahead of me as I attempt to jolt myself back into enough of an awareness to avoid being struck by an oncoming car.

No matter whether I would have preferred Rex to be with me at the store, or not, I know full well that if I hope to have any chance at all of getting back to a semi-normal life, I need to start doing things that I used to be able to do without a second thought.

I cannot look over my shoulder forever…

…

"Have a nice day, now."

"You too," I reply, doing my best to juggle the bags that I have looped over one arm, while my free hand clutches my purse like a lifeline, "Thanks again for the spare coupon."

"Any time, darlin'."

Managing one final smile before turning my attention to getting myself out the front door without a mishap, I find that I have to turn my body sideways so that the door falls against my back since it appears the woman who exited before me has no intention of helping out. As soon as the weight of it connects with my body, I find that I am stumbling a bit, a low huff escaping as what little breath there was in my lungs leaves in a rush.

Of course, had I known who I would end up bumping into as a direct result of my attempt at regaining my balance and avoiding allowing the contents of the bags I am holding to end up strewn all over the sidewalk, I might have just decided to ignore my stubborn pride and fall right where I was.

"Easy there, darlin'. Almost broke your ankle," A gruff voice intones, the sensation of a hand curling around my upper arm to steady me forcing me to look up, and swallow a bolt of dread as the first thing I note is the obvious amusement that is so apparent in his expression, "Can't have a pretty thing like you doin' that to herself—"

"Sorry—guess I bit off more than I can chew," I mumble, attempting to back away from the man whose hand is still curled around my arm, and flushing as I realize the potential implication behind what I have just said as soon as the words leave my mouth, "I think I've got it now."

"You sure? You're lookin' a little overwhelmed here, sweetheart."

"I'm not. Really," I insist, my brow furrowing as I try once again to extract my arm from the man's grasp, and find that he is about as immovable as a brick wall. It hasn't escaped my notice that the skin that is not covered by the white wife-beater he wears is covered in tattoos, much the same as I noticed Opie's had been as well. But in a rather obvious contrast to how my neighbor's ink had hardly dissuaded me from realizing that he was a genuinely sincere, and friendly person, this man is anything but, my heartrate accelerating exponentially as his hold upon my arm tightens just a bit before he speaks once again.

"I can carry some of those for you, if you'd like."

"I'm fine, sir. But thanks anyway."

Much to my chagrin, my words seem to have almost no impact on the man, his brows lifting while he removes his hand from my arm, only to scratch at an apparent itch just below his throat, between the clavicles. I might have been tempted to believe that what I saw next was an accident, but for the fact that a glance at his expression seems all but intended to tell me that such a belief would be foolish. And although I really don't want to look at it again, my eyes stray back to the tattoo just beneath, apprehension and something not all that far from abject fear causing my skin to tingle while my tongue darts out on instinct to wet my lips.

In spite of how I might have wished to pretend otherwise, I am very well aware that the swastika inked into his chest above letters I cannot fully read can only mean one thing.

The man I have quite literally bowled into in my own stupidity is definitely not someone I want as a friend.

"I really think you should let me help, sweetheart," The man states, his hand once again falling to my arm, this time to remove one of the bags, while his fingertips against my skin cause an unbidden tremor to roll through my frame, "It's just the polite thing to do."

"I think you need your hearing checked, Darby. The lass said no."

Stunned at the sound of the unexpected addition to this conversation, such as it is, I find that I am almost immediately turning to observe as another man approaches, placing a gloved hand upon my shoulder, and giving it a gentle squeeze before turning his attention towards the man—Darby—once more.

"Where I'm from, that means ya ought to leave her alone."

"She one of yours, Telford?"

"Don't see as how that's any of your business, friend," The man at my side replies, maintaining his hold upon my shoulder for just long enough to step forward until I end up almost completely shielded by his larger frame. In contrast to the other man's touch, this one did not have me instinctively recoiling, and I find myself surprised when I come to the determination that the prickling that had taken over my skin is now all but gone, my brow furrowing for just a moment before I redirect my attention to the conversation at hand.

"Way I see it, I was just trying to be a gentleman," Darby states, his attention remaining almost exclusively upon my would-be savior, and thus giving me the ability to note that one of his hands has wandered down to the hem of his jeans, my eyes wandering as I realize almost immediately that his fingers have just grazed the hilt of a knife.

Jesus Christ…

"Maybe you can take that bullshite somewhere else. I can help the lass from here."

Something in how Darby is staring at the newcomer terrifies me, in spite of how I am all too aware of the fact that every time I even attempt to shift my own position, the man standing before me moves to block me within seconds—and although I have absolutely no clue who this man is, or if he is truly any safer than his adversary, I cannot help but give in to the instinctive need to place a hand, palm-flat, against his back anyway, my teeth worrying at my lower lip for a moment before I become aware of another voice speaking from behind me, and to the left.

"Need me to call Clay?"

Clay—who the hell is Clay?

"Nah. I've got it handled, Prospect. Our friend, here, was just leavin'."

I am not blind to the obvious darkening in Darby's expression, any more than I am oblivious to how our newest arrival—a much younger man, who somehow finds the wherewithal to give me a lopsided grin in spite of the tension that is all but palpable in the air around us—almost automatically shifts until he, too, stands before me. And although I would have been a fool to pretend that I am not grateful for the apparent protection, I still cannot help but allow my gaze to stray back to Darby, only to find that he is holding both hands up in a gesture of mock surrender, before taking a few steps back and glancing my way.

"Meant no offense, sweetheart. Have a nice day."

Choosing not to reply, particularly as I have no real way of knowing if my voice will be able to even form the words without cracking midway through, I settle instead for managing a curt nod before watching Darby walk away, my heart still pounding erratically in my chest as I run my tongue over my lips and exhale in a shaky rush, and remove my hand from my rescuer's back in favor of dragging it through my hair. Almost at the same time, my newfound companions turn back towards me, causing me to drop my gaze back to the bags I am holding in hopes that they will not notice how shaken I really am…

Of course hoping that is probably about as likely as wishing for a unicorn as a birthday present next year.

"Ya alright, lass?" The taller of the two men inquires, the genuine concern that is so apparent in his question forcing me to look away from the grocery bags that feel like they might actually be starting to cut off circulation in my arm, and meet his gaze directly.

"I—yeah. Yeah, I'm fine. Thank you."

"Any time, darlin'. You need a lift?"

"Oh—no. No, a friend is meeting me here," I manage, glancing towards the parking lot, and feeling my muscles relax almost automatically as I recognize Rex's car pulling into a parking space nearby, "That's him."

"Got a nice ride—"

"Get your jaw off the pavement, Prospect. People'll start to talk."

Unable to resist the urge to laugh in response to not only the statement, but the way in which the older man punches his younger companion in the shoulder, causing him to stumble to the side a bit, until he nearly collides with Rex in the process. Just by a look at him, I can tell that the man who moved to this small town with me is not entirely pleased by my choice in companions, at the moment, his expression immovable as he steadies the young man who so nearly bowled right into him, before glancing towards me, directly. Clearly, he is doubting my sanity right now, and if I am being honest, I am not entirely certain of my faculties at the moment, either. But before I can make heads or tails of it, I find that Rex is reaching for my free hand, and tugging me to stand at his side, his eyes searching my own for a moment of silence before he speaks.

"You alright?"

"Yeah, Rex. I'm fine."

"You're sure?"

"Scout's honor," I confirm, settling against his side, and allowing him to relieve me of two of the heavier bags at the same time, "Thankfully these two gentlemen stepped in when they did."

"Rex Taylor," He begins, turning towards the two men who stand before us, and shaking their hands by way of thanks, though I am unable to determine if his skepticism over their presence has lessened or not, "Who'd have thought getting groceries would warrant a protective detail?"

"I take it the lass is a magnet for trouble?"

"That would be the understatement of the century."

"Well we're happy to be of assistance," The older of the two men assured, glancing towards me, and sending me a faint grin before introducing himself as well, "Name's Chibs. An' our young friend, here, calls himself Half-Sack."

"Half-Sack?" I repeat, eyeing the younger man with some amount of amusement, and sharing a skeptical glance with Rex before inquiring further, "Where on earth did you get a name like that."

"Trust me, lass, you don't wanna be askin' that question."

"In that case, we should probably get going," Rex suggests, tightening his hold on me just a bit as he realizes Chibs is reaching forward to give my shoulder one more gentle squeeze, and consequently prompting me to dig my elbow into his side as subtly as I can to get him to back down. Of course I fully understand why he is on edge, just as I know I will most likely get an earful about how reckless I am as soon as we get in the car. But even in spite of that awareness, I cannot quite explain the almost frighteningly strong sensation that these two men, we can trust, a small smile flashing across my features for a moment before I summon the wherewithal to lift my own hand up to press against his own before Rex begins to gently pull me away, and manages one final nod to my rescuers before nudging me towards the car.

"Thanks again for looking after her."

"Not a problem."

"You know they were only trying to help, right?" I remark, risking a glance at Rex's expression, and finding myself startled by the fact that his jaw has tensed so fiercely that a muscle keeps jumping every few seconds in response, "They seem like good guys—"

"I'm gonna go ahead and reserve my judgment on that if it's alright with you."

"Rex—"

"Don't, okay. Just—can you just get in the car? We can talk once we get back home."

Pursing my lips in obvious consternation, and yet still managing to nod briefly in response, I move towards the trunk of the car to stow the groceries inside, my teeth once again coming to worry at my lower lip while I think back on everything that has just transpired. I would have been a fool not to be unnerved by Darby—I knew that, as well as I knew my own name.

Why was it I couldn't seem to shake the idea that in spite of how I knew the two men who had intervened with him on my behalf did so with kind intentions, that said intervention was only the first in a long line of events that would change my world forever.

…

"So—are you planning on telling me what on earth that was all about, earlier?" Rex inquires, poking his head in through the sliding glass door that leads out onto my patio, and causing me to jump where I stand by the stove, waiting for the timer to run out on the potatoes. Honestly, I find that I am a bit surprised he hasn't started in on this particular line of questioning sooner, seeing as his appearance in the doorway to begin with can only mean that the steaks are almost finished on the grill. But even in the face of that amazement, I find that I am not entirely willing to answer him fully, my attention turning instead to the effort of moving to the refrigerator to get the butter out and place it on the table.

"It wasn't about anything, Rex. It was just a misunderstanding."

"Since when do misunderstandings require two guard dogs?"

"Guard dogs? Really?" I scoff, shutting the refrigerator door, and leaning my hip against the countertop nearby so that I can give him the full brunt of my skeptical expression first-hand, "A little excessive, don't you think?"

"You don't even know them, kid."

"And neither do you!"

"So you're defending strangers, now?" Rex demands, exasperation coloring his tone as he places one hand upon the door frame, and regards me with something that is not all that far from abject disappointment, "Christ, I thought you were smarter than that."

"I'd like to think I'm smart enough to recognize when someone is just trying to help."

"Oh? Well from where I'm standing, 'trying to help' can do far more harm than good. You of all people should know that."

"That's not fair, Rex."

"No. But it's the truth."

Unable to come up with any sort of retort that would even stand a chance at holding out against what I know to be true, I settle instead for turning from Rex and facing the countertop instead, my palms resting flat upon its surface as I force my eyes closed and exhale in hopes of settling the tumult of my inner thoughts and feelings. For a moment, I am convinced that he has gone back onto the patio to check on the steaks, my shoulders relaxing just a bit as I allow my head to sag just a bit in order to stretch the stiff muscles in my neck. And then I feel it—the pressure of Rex's hands upon my hips as he pulls me away from the corner, and turns me to face him head-on, his eyes searching my own for a moment before he is pulling me so that my cheek rests against his chest.

"You know I'm not going to let anything happen to you—you know that, right?"

"I do," I confirm, my voice coming out slightly muffled against his chest, though I am not entirely willing to pull away, regardless, "Trust me, Rex, if I know anything at all, I know that."

"Can you promise me one thing, then? Just one," Rex pleaded, removing one hand from my hip so that he could tuck a finger beneath my chin, and tilt my head back until my eyes meet his own. The concern that is so obvious in his expression causes my heart to slam against my ribcage, a wince stealing over my features as I realize that I would be blind not to realize that it is genuine. But even in the face of how I am stunned at the ferocity etched upon his features, particularly as it compares to how gently he is holding my chin and my hip, I force myself to manage a single nod, my eyes never once leaving Rex's as I find the wherewithal to speak even though my voice is barely above a whisper.

"Yes."

"Let me work with you on basic self-defense. I'm not having you wandering around town on your own with absolutely no way to keep yourself safe."

"Why do I get the feeling there's a second part to this request?" I ask, pulling back just a bit, and catching how Rex appears to tense for just a moment before he is sending me a half-smile and mussing the hair at the top of my head before he replies.

"There is. You're also gonna let me teach you how to handle a gun," He begins, placing a finger on my lips as he realizes I am opening my mouth to protest, and effectively silencing me with the gesture, no matter how his proposition sets my heart to racing once again, "If there's ever a time when I'm not around, I want you able to shoot without hesitation. I'm not taking arguments on this, sweetheart."

"You really think someone's going to find us here?"

"No. No, I really don't. But if today taught me anything, it was that it never hurts to be prepared."

No matter the trepidation that clenches around my heart at the prospect of what Rex has just mentioned, I know better than to protest, the unadulterated determination that has taken hold of his features giving me absolutely no reason to doubt that he will make due on his word regardless of whatever arguments I might construct to attempt persuading him otherwise.

…


	4. Memory Lane

The following morning, I find myself curled in a ball on the sofa, my head resting on a solid source of warmth while my right arm has curled around that source as though determined to never let it go. For a moment, I simply remain still, my eyes squeezed shut as though I truly do believe that if I open them, I will regret it almost instantly. And although I know that the thought is at best, irrational, I find that I am completely incapable of dismissing it entirely, the steady thump of Rex's heart beneath my ear providing a soothing balm for the resurgence of nerves that plague me as my mind travels, once again, to my encounter with the man named Darby.

No matter how much I may want to forget it, it would seem that I cannot keep the incident from my mind.

I know, on some level, that my apparent obsession is not warranted—not really, especially when I consider the fact that Darby was not the first man I had ever encountered that seemed to think his mere existence was God's gift to the world. In contrast to those other men, though, something about the barely veiled hostility he had exhibited, even in the presence of two other men who were clearly not going to turn away from a confrontation, had shaken me far more than I had ever expected, the willingness with which his hand had strayed, for a moment, to the knife at his belt proving that he was only too willing to use it.

It wouldn't take a genius to realize that such an overt propensity for violence would make me jumpy, particularly given how my instinctive decision to step in during the last incident I had witnessed was what landed me here to begin with.

Had things turned violent with Darby, would I have done the same, again?

I suppose it really should not surprise me that my answer to that question is a resounding 'yes', even in spite of the potential consequences, one corner of my lips curling into a half-smile as I find that I can practically hear what Rex would say if he knew of the precise nature of my thoughts. I can only imagine that, were I to confess to such musings out loud, I would very likely find myself being checked into a mental institution—and although I try my best to resist, I am unable to fight against the snort of amusement that escapes as a result, the sound causing Rex to stretch for a moment, his arm that has looped around my waist tightening its hold for a moment, and prompting me to crack one eye open to glance at him directly.

"What time is it?"

"Time for you to get a watch," I quip, the predictable swat that lands against my side in response to my weak attempt at humor causing me to huff before I am pulling away from the warmth provided by my companion's frame, and running both hands through tousled hair before glancing at the clock resting on the mantle, "Six-thirty, apparently."

"Damn. So much for sleeping in."

"Yeah. No kidding."

"Want me to make some coffee?" Rex inquires, running a hand across obviously exhausted features, and lifting a brow as he glances my way just in time to see my eager nod of approval, "Stupid question, I guess."

"No, not stupid. Just a question with a predictable answer."

With a soft groan that is likely in response to the vehement protestations of stiff muscles, Rex moves to stand, stretching once again before moving towards the kitchen and awaiting coffee pot therein. In seconds, I can hear the telltale rustlings that indicate he is searching for the coffee filters, my lips quirking up in a faint smile as the sound of low grumbles reach my ears. And although I really do not particularly want to remove myself from the couch at this particular juncture, I force myself to move, regardless, my spine giving a muted pop of protest in response.

"Third drawer on the left by the sink," I call out, moving to the doorway, and leaning a hip against the frame while both arms cross over my chest, "Sorry. Forgot you weren't a part of the set up in this room."

"That was probably a good thing. My kitchen still looks like it was hit by a tornado."

"I told you I could help you move in as well, you know—returning the favor and all—"

"What's the point of having a bachelor pad if it looks like a woman organized it all?" Rex quips, his remark causing me to snort in amusement while he finishes with the coffee pot, and presses the button that will start the brewing process.

"You looking to find yourself a lady, here?"

"Something tells me the lady I've already got will keep me more than a little occupied."

"Is that a challenge?"

"More like a certainty."

"Come on, Rex, am I really that bad?" I pout, pushing myself away from the door frame, and heading towards the fridge in response to a sudden craving for eggs and bacon. Though he did his best to mask it, I was not blind to the slight furrowing in Rex's brow in response to my inquiry, his expression faltering just a bit for reasons I knew only too well.

Like me, his thoughts were quite obviously straying back to the encounter outside the grocery store, no matter what either of us tried to do to stop it.

"It's not you that I'm worried about. It's everyone else in this god damned world," Rex confesses, turning around so that he can face me, and lean against the countertop as well, one brow quirking in silent inquiry as he realizes I am balancing a carton of eggs and a packet of bacon in my arms while shutting the refrigerator door with my foot, "Please don't downplay this, okay?"

"I'm not downplaying anything."

"You sure about that?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I think I am," I reply, placing the eggs and bacon on the counter before stooping to get a pan out of the cupboard beneath the stove top, "But can you do me a favor in return?"

"Anything."

"Don't put Chibs and Half-Sack in the same boat as Darby, okay? They didn't have to step in, and they did. That means something to me."

"You know, not everyone that steps into the knight in shining armor role is actually a decent person," Rex advises, aware of my obvious intent to protest against his assertion, and holding out a hand to waylay my reply so that he can give me a faint smile in hopes of tempering his words with humor.

"And I think anyone that has the name 'Half-Sack' is someone that we want to be at least a little skeptical about—"

By the inflection in his voice when saying the name alone, I find myself flushing and redirecting my attention to preparing breakfast, knowing full-well that he has already attributed a reasoning to the young man's name, whether accurate or no…

…

After our impromptu breakfast, Rex departs for his apartment to finish what little unpacking he has left, though not before he has extracted the most solemn of promises from me that I will not do anything reckless while he's gone. At the memory of the stern cast to his expression, even in spite of the faint grin of amusement that tugged at the corners of his mouth, I find I am smiling, myself, my hands cradling the warmth of my coffee mug as I step out of the kitchen, and decide to venture out onto the back patio, instead of remaining indoors.

It would seem the sunshine streaming through the sliding door to the patio is far too tempting to resist…

Warmth from the patio blocks beats against my bare feet as I step outside, one hand freeing itself from the coffee mug so that I can shut the door behind me before padding over to the chair Rex had left beside the grill. As it turns out, the chair is in the perfect spot, half in the sunlight, and half in the shade of the awning overhanging part of the patio itself. And although I know it would be more practical to see about a shower, and the rest of my own unpacking, I cannot help but succumb to the desire to simply sit and enjoy the silence, regardless, one leg crossing over the other while I bring the steaming mug of java to my lips and take a well-deserved sip.

The warmth of the liquid almost immediately takes up residence in the center of my chest, causing me to close my eyes for a moment as I become all but completely absorbed in the task of simply savoring the moment. Somehow, even in the face of the thoughts that are always lingering in the back of my mind regarding how I came to be here, I am content, for the time-being, and perhaps it is because of that very fact that I find myself brave enough to actually spend a moment in considering everything that has brought me to this point, to begin with.

Whether that boldness is wise, or not, I suppose I will just have to find out.

I can still see it all so very clearly, like it is a movie playing on a television screen, instead of something that I actually witnessed in the flesh. The sun has just gone down—I'm half-jogging to get to my car, because a distant rumble of thunder, and the general ominous look of the clouds have me almost convinced that the sky is going to open up any second—I turn the corner to head towards the parking structure on the next block—and then I hear it. The sound of a grunt, followed by frantic pleading that sends a shiver down my spine even as I opt for turning my attention towards the alleyway on my right instead of just keeping to myself and heading towards the parking structure as I should have done from the start.

From that moment on, everything seems to move in slow motion, the sight of a hooded man slamming his companion against the brick wall of the alley seeming to force my feet to move in their direction before I am fully aware of it. Somewhere, in the back of my mind, a voice is screaming at me, demanding that I turn back before I get myself into something that I am not fully prepared to face. But, much like I always do, I am ignoring that voice, and pushing forward, a harsh exclamation that I realize only too late is coming from me rather effectively breaking up the dispute, and diverting attention towards my own person in the blink of an eye.

Instinctively, one of my hands removes itself from the grip on my coffee mug, and drifts down to my abdomen where I know the scar that serves as one of the many consequences of my rash decision still resides, the slight ridge in the skin palpable through the thin fabric of my shirt no matter how much I may wish to deny it. Occasionally, when I catch myself dreaming about the event, I can still feel the blade digging into my skin—the sharp pain brought about by the man twisting that knife just a bit before shoving me away from him so that I drop onto my hands and knees on the hard pavement of the alley floor. And although I can see, retrospectively, that every single thing about that particular encounter was foolish, on my part, I still cannot exactly promise that I would not do the same thing again, if the situation required.

I suppose that sort of thing is one of the many reasons that Rex is so overzealous when it comes to making sure I don't fall into the same trap, here in Charming.

In a way, I can understand where he's coming from, even in spite of how readily I rose to the task of defending my actions to him, time and time again, knowledge of exactly why he came to be in this current situation with me tempering any frustration I might begin to feel over his tendency for overprotection. He had been ready to get out. To put his many years of service behind him in favor of spending the rest of his life doing something that didn't revolve around life or death situations. And yet, in response to my rather reckless decision, he had volunteered to jump back in the deep end with me, regardless of his recently retired status, apparently not quite trusting that I would be able to keep out of trouble if left to my own devices with an active agent only a phone call away…

Between his apparent zeal for believing I wouldn't be able to help myself, and the favor he felt he owed my father for taking him under his wing, so to speak, I suppose it should not come as a surprise that Rex had followed me across the country with no hesitation at all.

At the thought of exactly how much Rex has sacrificed on my behalf, a small frown passes over my features, the sense of guilt I feel every time I spend too long considering the cost of my decisions on people that had absolutely nothing to do with it only growing. Of course, I know I can do nothing to change it. What's done is done, and all that anyone can do is move on from there. But even in the face of that awareness, I cannot seem to shake my regret, regardless, a sigh escaping as I down the rest of the coffee remaining in the mug, and force myself to my feet once again.

Determined to channel my guilt into something more productive, in spite of the potential futility of such a thing, I retrace my steps back into the kitchen and place the coffee mug beside the sink, my sudden desire to shower, and set to work unpacking some more boxes perhaps a bit too vehement to be wise. I cannot explain it—the belief that any form of productivity will be enough to distract me from my conflicted thoughts. But no matter how I know, on some level, that this plan might not actually work, I press forward with all the stubborn determination that I can muster, my hand trailing along the countertop as I leave the kitchen, and head down the hall to grab some new clothes.

After all, what better way is there to embrace a new life than to get to work making it your own?

…

A few hours later finds me dashing back inside after making an attempt at setting up a few gazing balls in front of the house, my fingers scrabbling to grab my phone from its place on the kitchen counter so that I can stand a chance at answering the call before it goes to voicemail. With just a brief glance, I recognize the number as being from the hospital, having committed the numbers etched onto the business card I received after my interview to memory in the childish hope that it might inspire some good karma. And although I am well aware that nerves have caused a sudden tremor to roll through me, I force myself to answer the call, regardless, hoping with everything I have that I do not sound as out of breath as I feel.

"Hello?"

"Miss Shore, this is Margaret Murphy from St. Thomas Hospital—" A cool, feminine voice begins, almost immediately recognizable as the self-same woman who conducted the majority of my interview the other day, "Do you have a moment to talk?"

"Absolutely," I reply, pulling out one of the chairs sitting around the kitchen table, and forcing myself to take a seat in hopes that it will help settle my jangling nerves enough to sound calm and collected, instead of harried and keyed up.

"I spoke with the hospital board after your interview, yesterday, and it seems they like you every bit as much as I did. If you'd like to come in tomorrow to discuss a formal offer, maybe take a tour with one of our newer doctors, and get to see what you'd be looking at, I'd be happy to set that up."

"That would—that would be great! Thank you!"

"Don't thank me, Miss Shore. You're the one with the impressive qualifications," Margaret states, something in her tone hinting at a smile, though of course I cannot see her face, "Would you be able to stop by around one tomorrow afternoon? Dr. Knowles would meet you in the main lobby, and after the tour we can firm up when you start work."

"I'll be there," I confirm, now unable to keep the eagerness from my voice, though I highly doubt that is entirely detrimental, "And thank you. Truly. I'm so grateful for the opportunity."

"As are we, Miss Shore. Have a good day."

"You too."

As soon as the call has ended, I find that I am emitting a high-pitched shriek of delight before I can fully stop it, all former thoughts of guilt fading away rather quickly as I opt, instead, for simply focusing on this particular win. In truth, I hadn't given much thought to what I would do for employment, if St. Thomas hadn't offered me a job, particularly since I was not entirely giddy about the potential for a long commute outside of town.

I suppose in retrospect, those fears were largely unfounded…

Regardless of that realization, and the fact that I can practically hear Rex gloating about his own certainty regarding my success, however, I choose to ignore reality, at least for the time-being, my attention turning instead toward the prospect of not having to drive an hour one-way every day just to earn some cash, while simultaneously padding towards the den so that I can power on the stereo. In spite of my doubts that seemed so overwhelming just moments before Margaret's call, I find that I am suddenly elated to be able to get a new start so easily, some sort of juvenile instinct prompting me to hum along to the lyrics of the song emanating from the stereo speakers in time with the haphazard little dance that I seem to choreograph on the spot.

Leave it to me to pick the exact moment that someone comes to the front door to have an impromptu dance party…

"Ellen?"

"Oh—hey, Donna," I manage, my cheeks burning as I realize I have been caught in the act of essentially making a fool of myself, and my neighbor takes the liberty of stepping inside my still-open front door with a soft smile of amusement toying at the corners of her mouth, "I—sorry, I was just—"

"Celebrating something good?"

"You could say that—"

"Well I'm sorry to just barge in," She continues, hovering in the doorway for a moment, even though I gesture for her to come inside, "I just wondered if you'd like to go for lunch?"

"Sure! Were you—what time were you thinking?"

"Now? Unless you have other plans—"

"No! No, I definitely don't have other plans," I reply, surprising myself with the eagerness behind my reply, and yet finding myself entirely incapable of regretting that eagerness, regardless, "Let me just grab my bag?"

"Sure. You ah—you wouldn't mind if the kids came along too, would you?" Donna inquires, the sudden sheepishness that seems so apparent in her expression causing me to feel a pang of sympathy for her, and the all too likely denial she would receive from others, with two young children involved in the deal as well.

Perhaps that is what prompts me to move forward so that I can reach for her hand with one of my own, and give it a gentle squeeze, my expression nothing short of sincere as I reply with as much enthusiasm as I can muster.

"No. No, I wouldn't mind that at all."

…

"You're kidding! That's amazing, Ellen, congratulations!" Donna enthuses, reaching across the table and giving my hand a small squeeze upon hearing my confession regarding the apparent new job that seems to have simply fallen into my lap, "And it explains the solo dance party—"

"Yeah. Yeah I guess it kind of does. Sorry you had to witness that."

"Don't be. All things considered I'd say you were doing pretty well."

"Well I'm glad I have someone's approval," I quip, sharing a laugh with Donna, and watching as she leans over to smooth a stray lock of blonde hair from her daughter's brow. It does not escape me, how her love for her kids is obvious in every little gesture, even if it is rather obvious that she is not always consciously aware of that very fact. And although I know it's foolish—downright stupid, even, given my current situation—I feel a little pang of something almost akin to jealousy take root in my chest when I consider whether or not I will ever get the chance to have a child of my own, my attention turning towards Kenny as he shifts minutely in the booth beside me to try and get a better angle on the drawing he's been working at since we arrived in hopes that I can avoid paying too much attention to my feelings.

"That looks good, Kenny—"

"Thanks," He replies, glancing up at me and giving me a faint smile, before ducking his head back down to begin coloring once again, "I'm not sure I really like it though."

"Oh? Why not?"

"I don't have the right colors."

"Kenny's always his own worst critic," Donna informs me, her arm looping around Ellie's shoulder, while she leans forward to look at her son's illustration for herself. Something clouds her expression, for a moment, while she watches her boy at work, the effect causing me to take a second look at the drawing for myself in an attempt at discerning what on earth might have prompted her to do such a thing in the first place.

It would seem what I had initially taken to be the figure of a man wearing some sort of cloak was actually a pretty damned accurate representation of the grim reaper, albeit shaded in light blue instead of black and grey…

"That for Halloween?" I inquire, hoping to diffuse the sudden fall in Donna's mood with a rather obvious attempt at a joke, only to find that Kenny is shaking his head more earnestly than I think I have ever seen a boy of his age do, before glancing back at me to reply.

"It's one of my Dad's tattoos."

Unsure of exactly how to reply to that particular statement, I find that I am remaining silent, instead, and hoping that I can somehow school my expression into something that is not too similar to shock. Obviously, I do not want to appear as though I am judging Donna, or her husband, for a decision to do to his body something that I would honestly be terrified to undergo. But something about the obvious contradiction between the sinister nature of the tattoo Opie apparently bears, and the kindness that both he and his wife have shown me in just a few short days sticks in my mind, causing my brow to furrow as I opt for a sip of water as a last ditch effort to give my new friend a moment to recover herself as well.

"Opie ran with a different crowd when he was growing up," She states, surprising me with the suddenness of her assertion, though her words are every bit as even as they had been during our previous conversations, "That tattoo, and the others, are just—they're just part of his past."

"Trust me, I get it. Honestly, I've got to give him kudos for having something like that to begin with."

"Why?"

"Because it had to hurt like hell," I begin, pleased that my honest remark seems to have given Donna enough reason to relax as she comes to the realization that I am not about to condemn her, or Opie, for what happened in the past, "A friend of mine tried to convince me to get matching tattoos with her when we turned eighteen. I chickened out."

"Can't say that I blame you. I'm not a fan of pain either."

"That, and I was absolutely terrified I'd end up with Hep B. Which would have blown a hole in the theory of the parents never finding out—"

"Yeah, I think that might've blown your cover," Donna agrees, her features relaxing once again as she turns her attention back towards Kenny, for a moment, before she diverts our conversation towards a less sensitive topic, "When do you start at St. Thomas?"

"I'm supposed to go in tomorrow to discuss a formal offer, so I'm hoping that means I can get started officially in the next few days or so."

"You don't want any down-time? To get settled in?"

"I'm not sure I really need any, to be honest," I admit, aware of the curious expression that steals over Donna's features in response to my statement, and managing a light shrug before attempting to explain myself further, "I tend to go a bit stir-crazy if I'm not keeping myself busy."

"Makes sense. If it ever gets too boring, even with the job, you and Rex are more than welcome to stop by, though."

"Thanks, Donna. We may just take you up on that offer. I just hope we don't end up making you regret it."

"I don't really think that's possible," Donna assures me, sending another faint smile my way before our attention is effectively diverted by the reappearance of our waitress with food in tow. In spite of myself, my stomach chooses that particular moment to give off a rather loud rumble of anticipation, the sound causing my cheeks to flush while Kenny and Ellie both burst into raucous laughter.

For the moment, at least, it seems the downcast nature of our collective mood caused by Kenny's drawing is all but forgotten, though I would be a liar if I were to pretend that a part of me was still a bit curious as to what that illustration really meant…

…


	5. First Day

"Doctor Shore?" A cool, feminine voice calls, effectively breaking me from my internal musings, and causing me to glance towards the source of the intrusion into my thoughts while my nerves resurface with a vengeance. I am excited, of course, as any reasonable person would be at the prospect of starting a new job, and slowly easing into a new life when by all accounts I had significant doubts over whether such a thing was even possible. But even in the face of that overwhelming positivity, I cannot help but fall prey to old anxieties, regardless, the nagging thought of what I will do if this doesn't work out plaguing me no matter how hard I try to avoid it.

Still, I know that I have to press on, even if doing so takes all of the mental fortitude I possess, a soft sigh escaping as I square my shoulders, and run the palms of my hands against my skirt in hopes that it will make them a touch less sweaty before I greet my would-be tour guide with what I hope is a halfway convincing smile.

"Hi. I'm Tara Knowles," She states, reaching for my hand, and surprising me with the strength in that grip when compared to her obviously petite frame, "Margaret told me you would be a great addition to our team."

"I'm glad to hear she thinks that."

"She said you wanted to go into general surgery?"

"I do," I confirm, falling into step beside Tara, and allowing myself the courtesy of feeling at least a little bit more at ease in light of her encouraging nod, "But I'm open to learning anything, really."

"Ever think of going into pediatric medicine?"

"Honestly? Not really, no. The thought of holding the life of someone that tiny in my hands—it—"

"Scares the hell out of you?"

"Something like that, yeah."

"I think that kind of fear only makes you a better doctor," Tara persists, a smile passing over her features in response to how my eyebrow quirks up in obvious surprise before I can summon the wherewithal to stop it, "You think first, rather than making rash decisions."

"And it never blinds you? Makes you miss something important because you were too caught up in it?"

"In my experience, any one of us can freeze no matter who the patient is. What matters is how we learn from it after the fact."

Aware of the wisdom in her words, I find that my brow is furrowing for a moment while I mull over what it is that she has said, my footsteps seeming to instinctively follow hers while she leads us toward a nearby elevator at the lobby's outer edge. For a moment, I catch myself wondering over what it might have been that caused her to have that particular outlook, knowing that it must have been something, otherwise she never would have chosen to impart her wisdom such as it was, first-hand. But before I have any chance at discerning exactly how to obtain an answer to my sudden question without appearing too forward, I realize the elevator has arrived on our floor, and Tara is gesturing for me to get inside before she does the same.

"I'll take you through the operating rooms, first," She begins, jabbing a finger into the button for floor two, and then stepping back and placing both hands inside her white coat's pockets before turning to me to give me a slight smile, "Then I think we can head on over to the NICU."

"You trying to get me to switch to peds?" I inquire, hoping that Tara will not take any offense over my question, and almost immediately finding myself pleased to see that it has provoked a soft laugh and what might even pass for a conspiratorial wink, instead of censure or affront.

"Do me a favor and don't tell anyone. I'm supposed to be impartial, here."

"Your secret's safe with me…"

Whether I could have anticipated it or not, it would seem it might be easier to fit in here than I thought.

…

"It may sound hard to believe, but I swear I didn't stage that," Tara says, sharing a laugh with me as we both lean up against the wall outside of the operating room, gowned and scrubbed, though the surgical masks and rubber gloves came off a few moments ago, "You're quick on your feet, though. That's good."

"I just followed your lead."

"Somehow, I get the feeling you would have been just fine on your own."

Unable to resist, in the wake of the familiar, almost euphoric rush that I always feel after a surgery, I grin openly at my newfound companion, another laugh escaping as I glance down at my still-bootied feet and scuff the toe of one shoe against the linoleum before I reply.

"Maybe. Still, it was nice to have help."

"Remind me to keep you around the next time a fractured clavicle turns into emergency surgery, then."

"I'll do my best."

"Margaret told me to pass on that you can start whenever you want," Tara adds, shoving away from the wall she is leaning against, and starting to head down the hall leading away from the operating room doors while I follow suit, "Did you have a particular day in mind?"

"Any time would work, honestly. I'm all unpacked, and twiddling my thumbs at home."

"Not a fan of down time?"

"Not really, no," I confess, relieved that Tara's expression has not altered at all, though I know she must be wondering why on earth I am so eager to get started, "I tend to go stir crazy if I'm left to my own devices for too long—"

More like I find some way to get myself into trouble…

"I get it. I do," Tara assures me, guiding us back towards the main hallway of the second floor, and removing her right hand from her pocket so that she can tuck a stray lock of dark hair behind her ear, "That kind of feeling seems pretty common in small towns."

"You're not from around here, then?"

"I was. I moved away, but this town sort of—has a way of pulling you back in, whether you want it to or not."

"You say that like it's a bad thing."

"It's not. Not really," My companion admits, managing a tiny shrug as if that really holds enough power to lift the apparent weight from her shoulders, "I guess it just brings up a lot of stuff that I thought I put behind me."

Unsure of exactly what to say in the wake of Tara's pseudo-confession, I opt for remaining silent and hoping that she will not take that silence as a judgment, my attention shifting from her suddenly murky features to the person I have so nearly collided with as a result of my distraction. A muffled apology and my rather hasty side-step around the man seem to be enough to have him moving on, without causing a scene—and although I would be a fool to pretend that the incident does not have my mind straying back to the encounter outside the grocery store a few days prior, I force myself to remain very firmly rooted in the present, the fingers of one hand toying with the string of my surgical mask that I still have yet to discard while I risk another glance at Tara, and realize that she must have noticed my minor lapse of awareness, even in spite of my desire to avoid it.

"You okay?"

"Yeah—yeah, sorry, just wasn't watching where I was going," I reply, pursing my lips as I watch for Tara's reaction, and note that she doesn't seem to fully accept my answer at face value, "I'm good. Promise."

"So you wouldn't object to a NICU visit," Tara prompts, her obvious enthusiasm to get me there provoking a small smile, even in the face of my most recent distraction. In spite of myself, I'm curious to see what it is about that particular location in the hospital that has her so intrigued, because I would be blind to miss that her desire to share the main hub of her own career is simply the result of loving what she does.

Perhaps that is what has me allowing the small smile toying at the corners of my mouth to grow, my thoughts once again securely rooted in the present as I give her a light nod, and follow her down the nearby hall.

"Not at all."

I may as well let her have her fun, right? After all, she is the one in charge of the tour…

…

"So—when do you start officially?" Rex inquires, tossing the beer bottle cap onto the table in front of the sofa, and leaning back against the cushions while awaiting my reply. I watch him, for a moment, in silence, amusement causing my shoulders to shake as I realize he is eyeing me as though there is an actual risk of his deciding to drag the answer out of me by force if I remain quiet for much longer.

I suppose that it would be accurate to say that the exact moment I notice his growing impatience is the moment I finally decide to spill the beans.

"First thing Monday morning. Apparently I'll be working under Tara, directly."

"Tara. So we're on a first-name basis already, huh? That's good!"

"She kind of insisted on it," I explain, dragging my fingers through my hair after letting it down from the haphazard bun I had placed it in earlier in hopes of keeping it out of the way while in the middle of the operating room, "She's not all that much older than me, it seems."

"And she let you into her O.R."

"We didn't really have much of a choice—the kid tanked right there in front of us, Rex."

"Still, sounds pretty bad ass to me."

"Speak for yourself. I thought I was going to throw up the whole time."

"You'll get back in your groove quicker than you think, you know," Rex begins, his desire to reassure me in the midst of my apparent lack of confidence stirring, to say the least, as I do my best to avoid biting my lip in spite of the sudden flush burning upon my cheeks, "You've got this. I know you do."

"Good to know someone out there is keeping up the faith."

"You're not?"

"I guess I'm just overthinking this whole 'starting over' thing a bit," I confess, watching as Rex frowns almost immediately in response to my statement, and leaning forward to place both elbows on my knees, "Maybe I need a Xanax."

"Or another glass or two of wine."

"Maybe both."

"Yeah, let's not get too carried away, there," Rex cautions, a soft chuckle serving as my only source of warning before I am pulled against his side while his arm winds around my shoulders, "Can't have you stoned on the job."

"If I drink, and take the pills now, I think I'll be fine by Monday, Rex."

"Okay. Spill."

"I—what?"

"Spill," Rex repeats, obviously taking my attempt at sarcasm far too seriously, if the expression that takes over his features in response to it is any indication, "Something happened today, didn't it?"

"Other than watching a child nearly die, you mean?"

"Yeah. Other than that."

"It's like I said. I'm just overthinking everything," I state, exhaling in a long sigh, and allowing myself to settle a bit more comfortably against Rex's side, my eyes drifting to where our thighs press together on the sofa cushions for a moment before I gather the wherewithal to speak once again, "I just—I can't stop thinking about what the hell we're going to do if this doesn't work, and—"

"You've got to stop doubting yourself, Reagan. You can do this."

"I don't doubt myself. I doubt my ability to be this—this entire other person. I don't know if—I don't know if I can do this, Rex."

"You can."

"You don't know that."

"Yeah, actually, I'm pretty damned sure I do," Rex persists, straightening from his position against the sofa cushions, and turning just a bit so that he can face me head-on, and simultaneously causing me to mourn the loss of his arm around my shoulders far more than I am prepared to admit, "Hell, if you can survive getting knifed in an alleyway, and still have the metaphorical balls to testify, I think that means you can handle pretty much anything life throws your way."

"You have way too much faith in me."

"No, I have exactly enough. You're gonna get through this, kid. We both will."

"That's exactly it. You shouldn't have to 'get through' anything!" I exclaim, surprising myself with the vehemence in my reply, particularly given the reality of how my uncertainty has once again caused my hands to shake, "You weren't the one stupid enough to walk into the middle of something you didn't understand."

"But I would help you run from that time and time again, if I had to. You've got to know that."

"I wish you didn't feel that way—"

"Well tough luck, kid, because I do," Rex says, the determination in his expression causing my mouth to tremble, and consequently forcing me to avert my gaze while he pulls me back against his side and I find that I am clinging to his shirt as though it's a lifeline, "You're stuck with me whether you want to be or not."

"You know, some people might consider that reason enough to question your sanity."

"Screw 'em. I'm fine right where I am."

"What exactly did my Dad do for you, Rex?" I ask, my head tilting back just a bit so that I can look him in the eye, though my arm remains slung tightly across his chest as though I am terrified if I let go, he will simply disappear, "You seem to have a hell of a lot of loyalty to stick yourself with a pain in the ass that doesn't know when to mind her own business."

"Let's just say I kept his ass out of a pretty tight jam, and leave it at that."

"That's all I'm gonna get?"

"That's all you need to know, Reagan. Confidential."

"Right. Confidential," I repeat, trying and failing to hide my disappointment, though I at least have the forethought to avoid letting that feeling prompt me to pull away, "I'm not trying to be a pain here, Rex, I just—I just thought maybe in the spirit of shared experience we could—"

"Commiserate?"

"Something like that."

"Trust me, Reagan, you don't want to use my personal experiences as something to make you feel better," Rex advises, sending me what is clearly meant to be a reassuring smile, although it does nothing to remove the growing lump that seems to have lodged itself somewhere between my ribcage and my gut. I cannot explain it—the sensation that, in spite of Rex's rather obvious thoughts to the contrary, if I did know even a little bit about some of the things he went through in his years working with my father, it might assuage my nerves, by serving as a distraction from them, if nothing else—

But I know Rex well enough to realize when he is not about to budge on something, and this is precisely one of those times.

"Can you do one thing for me, then?" I inquire, fiddling with a loose thread on Rex's shirt, and finding myself more than a little surprised when the gesture prompts him to tighten his hold on my shoulders, effectively squashing me against his far sturdier frame.

"Anything, kid."

"Can we do something crazy this weekend? Distracting? So that I'm so wiped out by the end of it that I pass out and before I know it, it's Monday morning?"

"Sure thing," Rex promises, the sudden sensation of his lips as they press against the top of my head causing my mouth to quirk up at the corners, while a flush adorns my cheeks in tandem, "How does a marathon of all the Harry Potter films, and more pizza than you can eat sound?"

"Great," I reply, grinning in spite of the mood that had prompted this entire charade to begin with, and lifting a brow as I lean back once again so that I can force the full weight of my amusement on Rex, and watch for his reaction as well before going on, "But you know what that makes you?"

"What?"

"A huge nerd."

I could have predicted the retaliation that came next, the challenging expression that drifted across Rex's features giving me every indication that he is preparing to pounce. But something in the way I feel almost compelled to give him this one tiny victory, particularly in the face of everything he has given up to help me—everything he is still giving up by staying here forces me to stay put, a high-pitched shriek escaping as I find myself bowled over onto my back on the sofa while Rex uses that position of relative vulnerability to grab for the pillow behind my head, and land a retaliatory swipe against my upraised arms…

I would have been a liar to pretend that even this small distraction did not mean the world to me, regardless of the fact that I know it is only temporary.

Reality, after all, had a nasty way of returning to rear its ugly head in the morning.

…


	6. Biker Baby

The weekend passes almost as quickly as I hoped as a direct result of Rex's diligence in coming up with new movies for us to watch after we successfully binge Harry Potter, my gratitude for his apparent ability to read me and my subconscious needs and worries without my ever having to say a word coming very close to being overwhelming. I cannot explain it—the sense of ease that comes over me as I realize that in spite of only having met me in the last few years of my father's life, Rex really does seem to know me better than I know myself.

The man can read me like a damned open book, and no matter how often I may want at least some of my thoughts to remain private, I cannot really complain.

"Hey! Sorry about throwing you in the deep end, there," Tara begins, effectively startling me from my reminiscing over the past forty-eight hours, and causing me to redirect my attention to her as she approaches from down the hall, "Doctor Namid only had room for one extra otherwise you would've been right there with me."

"How did it go?"

"Dicey, at least at first. Wendy's gonna be fine, minus the detox, but the baby—"

"Tell me he didn't—"

"He survived the emergency C-section. But he's got gastroschisis, and a heart defect, and—"

"The cards are already stacked against him," I supply, frowning as Tara nods in lieu of a verbal reply, and folding my arms across my chest in hopes of staving off the shiver that rolls through my frame in response to the dour news, "God, that's awful."

"Yeah. It is."

"Any news about his father?" I inquire, aware of how Tara automatically seems to tense, though she shakes it off almost as quickly once she realizes I am still watching. Something about the mention of the man has her on edge, and I would be a liar if I tried to pretend I did not feel the faintest sense of curiosity over that very fact. But in spite of that almost instinctive need to know what was behind my companion's suddenly unreadable expression, I force it to the side in favor of schooling my own into a mask of nothing but clinical concern, my brow furrowing just a bit while I listen to Tara's reply.

"Nothing yet. I'm sure he'll find out soon enough."

Confused at the sudden hardness in her tone, as well as why on earth one of us has not already been tasked with hunting the man down, I opt for remaining silent instead of questioning her actions, somehow knowing that to do so would only make things worse. For her part, Tara seems to realize the gist of my intentions almost as soon as I have come to terms with them myself, her expression softening just a bit as she gestures for us to move down the hall and back towards the elevators so that we can venture back to the fourth floor, and the rest of our patients for the day. And although I know I may be pressing my luck, allowing my curiosity to get in the way of what some might call good professional judgment, I seem completely incapable of resisting the urge to give voice to it, regardless, my expression at least possessing the good graces to seem apprehensive while I speak.

"If he—if he comes in, do you want me to tell him?"

"No," Tara replies, shaking her head, and managing half a smile as though she desires to assure me that I truly have not offended her by my obvious attempt to elicit more information than she is willing to give at the present moment, "No, this is something that I should tell him myself."

"Okay," I consent, following Tara into the elevator, and placing both hands inside my pockets while simultaneously leaning back against the wall as we begin the ride to floor four, "I'm here if you decide you've changed your mind, though."

"Thank you, Ellen. I mean that."

After my nod of acknowledgement, we lapse into what appears to be nothing more than comfortable silence until the elevator reaches our floor, the soft ding echoing in the metal box while the doors slide open and we step out. Though it is only my first day I find that I am able to turn to the left first, sharing a look with my companion, and suppressing a grin as I take in her apparent relief that I have so easily read her mind. And perhaps that fact in and of itself is what prompts her to answer my poorly hidden grin with one of her own, her expression relaxing a bit before she speaks once again.

"So—how did everybody do while I was in the OR?"

"Pretty well, all things considered," I supply, following her towards the first room of the hall, and taking the liberty of leaning against the doorframe while she plucks a pen and notepad from her pocket just before venturing inside the room proper, "I had to up four-fourteen's Nitro-drip, but other than that everything's pretty much status quo."

"Sounds good to me," My colleague states, sending me another faint smile by way of thanks for keeping an eye on everything, and giving me reason to feel just a bit more sure of myself in the process, "We'll round on everyone one more time before lunch, and then I think we should give you your first look at our newborn in the NICU."

"Sure thing."

Before I fully realize it, we are off, buzzing in and out of patient rooms, adjusting meds if needed, and chatting amongst ourselves the entire time as though we have worked together for years, and not just a mere day—and although I know that I am not entirely free of my doubts, I find that for the first time since I moved to Charming, I am at peace.

Perhaps Rex was right, and I have found my niche far faster than I thought.

…

"You're kidding—he's a friend of your dad's?"

"Yeah," I confirm, unable to stop the faint flush that has broken out over my cheeks in response to Tara's obvious surprise, though mercifully her attention still seems all but riveted on Rex as he departs through the sliding glass doors that lead from the cafeteria to the outer courtyard just across the street from where he parked his car, "They knew each other from work, and he just sort of started showing up at family events semi-regularly after that."

"Well he's hot," Tara persists, the vehemence behind her response causing me to laugh, and feel a simultaneous sense of relief that my minor slip up in inserting some truth to my backstory and the subsequent flinch I give in response appears to have gone unnoticed, "And he brought you lunch. I'd say he's a keeper."

"Oh we—we're not together."

"Tell that to him, Ellen. He's definitely into you."

"Oh come on, Tara, be realistic!" I exclaim, my brow furrowing as I take note of exactly how amused my companion appears to be in response to my rather obvious embarrassment, "He's like—like a crazy uncle, or something."

"And you're sure you didn't tap into any of the sedatives while I was operating?" Tara teases, ignoring my eye-roll, and reaching across the table to swipe a grape from my plate before I have the chance to protest, "Seems like you're missing the obvious, here."

"Sure I am. Or maybe you dipped into some of them yourself in the operating room. Since you're obviously hallucinating—"

"Ha ha. Very funny."

"I thought so."

Sharing another laugh, and not really seeming to care that the sound has drawn the attention of a nearby table's occupants, Tara and I coexist for a moment or two in our shared amusement, all thought of junkie moms and ill newborns appearing to be far from our minds. It surprises me that we appear to share such an easy camaraderie, when the reality of how we barely know each other keeps rooting itself rather firmly in my mind, especially when thrown together with the fact that everything I have told her about myself, at least for the most part, has been a lie. But no matter how I may try to second guess myself, in that regard, I cannot entirely be persuaded to find fault in the apparent ease of our conversations, my eyes flicking to Tara's own as she swipes another grape from me, and gives me an apologetic smile.

"Sorry—if you couldn't tell, I don't have a guy willing to schlep my lunch to me if I forget it."

"It's not a problem at all. I'd probably be able to convince him to bring you something too, if you want."

"And you don't think he likes you."

"He's just a good friend, Tara."

"Mhmm. I believe you."

"No you don't—" I retort, popping the last of the grapes in my mouth, and wincing as some of the juice gets access to the raw spot on the inside of my cheek that is a direct result of my nerves causing me to chew at the skin there as though my life depends upon it throughout the majority of the weekend, "But I guess I'll still work with you."

"That's a relief."

"I'm glad to hear it."

Before we can get too carried away in my amusement, the sound of a shrill beeping rather effectively distracts us, our hands flitting to our pagers in almost the exact same moment as we realize the noise is coming from us, and not some other doctor interspersed throughout the cafeteria proper. For a moment, it seems that Tara is frozen in place, remaining seated while I stand and gather our trash to place in the can near the table. But as soon as I am preparing to say something to startle her from her apparent distraction, she is shaking herself back to the present, only the muted oath she emits as she stands as well betraying her own sudden surge in nerves.

"Shit—it's our newborn," She says, jamming her hands in her pockets and moving towards the doorway of the cafeteria that will lead back to the main vestibule of the hospital so quickly that I find myself half-jogging to catch up.

"The family's here."

No matter how obviously I can tell she wants to avoid it, I have already come to the supposition that something about this case is personal for her, in more ways than one…

…

By the time we make it up to the NICU, I find that I can practically feel Tara's nervousness vibrating off of her, the effect causing me to bite at my cheek again in spite of the lesson I learned just moments ago with the acidity of the grape juice burning at the torn skin there with a vengeance. If the way in which she seems to tense while we head down the hall, and towards a group of four men and a lone middle-aged woman, all clad in various degrees of leather is any indication, they are the party we seek—and although I start out following after Tara as I should be, I find that it is not long before I am stopping in my tracks, the reaper on the back of one of the men grouped at the end of the hall jogging my memory back to the lunch I had shared with Donna Winston, while my eyes simultaneously widen as I realize one of the men whose back is not towards me is hauntingly familiar.

Chibs—

"What the hell happened?" One of the men demands, apparently aware of our presence before we make any attempt at announcing ourselves, though his blue eyes only drift briefly to me before fixing themselves upon Tara, instead.

"When was the last time you saw her?"

"Couple of weeks."

"Her hands and feet were full of tracks," Tara informs, something in her tone alerting me to the fact that this man, blond haired, blue-eyed and leather-clad, may just be the source of all of her pent up anxiety, though I have to give her credit for holding her ground without so much as a flinch, "Toxicology reports aren't back yet, but it's most likely crank."

"The baby?"

"We had to do an emergency C-section. He's ten weeks premature."

"Holy shit," The man breathes, running a hand across his face and short-clipped beard, while his attention strays to me, and remains there for the first time since we arrived, "And you are?"

"This is Doctor Shore, Jax. She's—she's taking over Wendy's case while I'm working on your boy."

I am?

"Come on—let's sit down, and I'll walk you through it," Tara persists, once again reclaiming the man's—Jax's—attention, and extending an arm as though to lead him towards a nearby bench, only to find that he is shaking his head and remaining rather stubbornly in place.

"Just tell me."

"He's got a congenital heart defect and gastroschisis—a tear in his abdomen. The gastro and early birth are from the drugs, but the CHD—it's probably—"

"The family flaw."

"Yes, it's genetic," My colleague agrees, acknowledging the middle aged woman's assertion with a faint nod, and inclining her head towards the other men gathered a few feet away in a silent bid for me to go and inform them of what she is telling the baby's father, and the woman now firmly rooted beside him as though ready for an attack, "Either one would be serious, but not life-threatening. However, the two of them together—Doctor Namid gives him a twenty percent chance and I'm afraid that's being optimistic."

Taking that rather dour remark as my leave to venture towards the others, I find I am placing both hands in my pockets once more in hopes that the act of approaching such imposing figures does not cause them to shake. In line with that desire, I find that my attention seems to rivet itself almost exclusively upon Chibs, though I am not blind to the fact that I am being scrutinized by a man with nearly all-white, close-cropped hair, and piercing blue eyes. That observation unnerves me far more than I am willing to admit, my hands clenching into fists within my pockets in hopes that the sensation of my fingernails digging into my palms will distract me from it entirely.

God, but how stupid that desire was…

"Good to see ya again, lass. Yer circumstances seem to have improved—"

"Yeah, I think they have," I reply, somehow able to manage a faint grin in the wake of Chibs' assertion, in spite of the fact that the other man has not stopped eyeing me as though I am some sort of credible threat, "Thank you again, for the other day."

"Jesus, Chibby, you never told us you found yourself a doctor."

"Shut it, Elvis," Chibs retorts, a well-aimed swipe only just missing his shorter, stockier companion's shoulder, before he turns his attention back to me, "So what's the problem with the wee lad?"

"We're looking at a heart defect, and a tear in his stomach," I state, poignantly aware of how the tall, white haired man that has been looking me over since I approached has straightened slightly, the way in which he looms over me causing me to swallow stiffly before forcing myself to go on, "They're going to do surgery to fix his stomach, and then if he tolerates that well enough, they'll move on to the heart."

"You think he's got a chance?" The white-haired man inquires, something in his tone indicating that if I fail to answer appropriately, I will most certainly end up regretting it. I can tell, somehow, that he is the leader of this particular crew, and almost at once I am able to understand Donna's seeming apprehension over her son's drawing. This is a man who would kill if he had to, to protect what was his—

And I can tell just by the look in his eyes as I force myself to meet his gaze head-on, that he is not above beating a woman to get what he wants.

"Doctor Knowles and Doctor Namid are very good at what they do. I have every reason to believe they'll do whatever they can to get him through this"

"That's not an answer."

"It's the only thing I can reasonably give you at this point in the game," I press, resisting the urge to take a step backwards to get out from beneath this man's very impressive frame, "I wish we had more to go on, here, but we don't."

"If I ask your boss back there, she gonna tell me the same thing?"

"Ease up, Clay. Lass is just doin' her job."

Clay—the name Half-Sack mentioned during my encounter with Darby—

"He's right. Tara would tell you the same thing," I confirm, throwing Chibs a glance that I hope conveys my gratitude for his intervention before returning my attention to Clay in spite of the fact that I want nothing more than to never have to look at him again, "We're not going to let him go without a fight, though. You have my word on that."

"You'd better hope your word is enough to get the kid through the night."

I am about to reply with something equally as abrasive, even in spite of my knowing that to do so would be far from wise, no matter how the veiled threat Clay gives as easily as though he were passing out candy on Halloween causes my skin to crawl. Truly, I don't know what has come over me, whether it be the obvious doubt the man has over Tara's skill as a surgeon, or the way in which he makes no secret of the fact that he doubts every word I say that prompts my desire to stand my ground when it would be far more prudent to simply step aside. But before I can do anything too foolish, the sound of Tara and the woman now standing beside her calling out as our patient's father strides away from them as though on a mission that will not be delayed reaches my ears, causing me to turn as Clay moves forward to stand at my side, and raises his own voice to join the fray.

"Jax—Jackson!"

"Go with Tara," The man instructs, never once looking back as he pushes against the swinging doors before him with enough force to send them both slamming back against the wall of the hallway beyond, "I got something to do."

"Watch his back," Clay orders, gesturing to Chibs and the other man—Elvis—and sending me a glare as Chibs pauses for just long enough to place a hand upon my shoulder before ducking down to whisper in my ear.

"Steady on, lass. Most days, his bark is worse than his bite."

"Where are they going?" I ask, the predictable scoff Clay gives me in response prompting me to look away from Chibs' retreating frame, and towards him instead, one brow lifting as I realize he is not about to give me anything even remotely close to a proper answer no matter how hard I try.

"To take care of business. That alright with you, princess?"

He doesn't even give me a chance to reply before he is heading towards Tara and the other woman, his arm wrapping around her shoulder as he pulls her close, and he asks a few more questions of his own. Tara doesn't seem to have the proper answers either, if the way his posture seems to tense up, even in spite of her obvious desire to provide them—but unlike me, she seems to have no problem issuing a retort of her own in response to Clay's harsh criticism, her gaze flicking towards the woman standing beside him for a moment before she heads my way.

"You alright?"

"Yeah. Yeah, why wouldn't I be?" I inquire, pursing my lips as she regards me for a moment in silence, as though doubting the legitimacy of my claim, even if she does choose to resist verbalizing it.

"Because these guys, Clay especially, aren't exactly easy on anyone that gets in their way."

"I was hardly in his way, Tara—"

"I know that. I do," Tara assures, her shoulder bumping against my own in what I can only interpret as a gesture of understanding, before she is exhaling and squaring her shoulders in one fluid motion, before moving back towards the couple at the other end of the hall, and thus prompting me to fall into step beside her before she finishes her statement in a slightly more confidential tone.

"But I have a touchy history with some of them, and unfortunately I think some of that may find a way of blowing back on you."

"A history?"

"Yes. And I'm sorry if that causes you any trouble. It's part of the reason I decided to have you look after Wendy unless Doctor Namid needs an extra set of hands."

"I think I can handle any trouble if it comes," I tell her, trying and failing to read her expression as she schools it into a carefully constructed mask of neutrality, "And if you need any help with the kid, please don't hesitate to ask. You don't have to take all of Clay's crap to keep me safe."

"Good to know," Tara replies, managing a faint smile as we step around Clay and the other woman while she gestures for them to follow her, and I head off towards the elevators to go and check on Wendy as instructed.

Whether it is a wise decision, or not, I am painfully aware of the fact that, when push comes to shove, I am now firmly on Tara's side when it comes to Clay and his obvious disdain for us both—and that, by the time I am wise enough to realize standing toe to toe with him on anything is a bad idea, I will have ventured too far down the path of no return to even think of retreating.

…


	7. Edge of Hell

Suppressing a yawn, and managing a grateful nod for the barista behind the counter, I accept my coffee and turn toward the exit of the hospital's cafeteria to head back to the elevators that will take me to the NICU, the first sip of the scalding hot liquid causing me to wince, even though I am nowhere near the point of regretting the haste that prompted the sip in the first place. Between keeping abreast of the patients on floor four, and completely failing to resist the urge to pop back to the NICU to check on its newest resident, I find that I am fighting exhaustion, though my shift is nowhere near complete.

Even in spite of how tired I am, though, absolutely nothing could persuade me to give this up, the familiarity of the hospital environment as a whole soothing me in a way that staying in my new home and relaxing never could.

In this frame of mind, I step into the elevator and fish into my whitecoat pocket for my cell as I feel it vibrating against my leg, my coffee balanced carefully in my other hand while a grin flashes across my features while I read the text flashing across the screen.

Hey there, Rockstar. How's it goin'?

Great. Busy. What are you up to?

That's for me to know, and you to find out.

Shaking my head at the obvious assurance in Rex's reply, I hold off on an answer of my own in favor of another sip of coffee, a pleased sigh escaping as I feel the warmth of the liquid slowly doing its job. Though I am nowhere near as awake as I was when I first walked through the hospital doors this morning, I am slowly getting rid of the brain fog that had prompted my little venture downstairs in the first place. And perhaps it is that reality that allows me to summon the boldness required for my ensuing response in spite of its potential implications, a sly smile tugging at the corners of my mouth while I pointedly push Tara's earlier remark about my relationship with Rex to the back of my mind.

It can't be true. It just can't.

You planning an ambush for when I get home, or something?

You wish.

Rex, are you calling me a masochist?

Maybe…

My head jerks up as the elevator dings and effectively distracts me from my texting, the skeptical glance that I receive from the man clearly waiting for me to vacate the premises causing my cheeks to flush while I scurry past him and disguise my embarrassment with another sip of the coffee in my hand. Although it buzzes, almost in protest, against my hand, I stow my phone back in my pocket, and choose instead to direct my attention to navigating the hall until I am standing outside of the NICU proper. And although some small part of me knows I should be almost anywhere else, whether or not there is any actual work for me to do at the present moment, I find that I am rooted to the spot watching Abel Teller sleeping in his incubator, my brow furrowing as I forgo all form of caution regarding things that are none of my business, and open the door to the NICU to get a closer look.

"Hey little guy," I say, my tone hushed as though I really think I can wake him as I step up to the side of the incubator, and place a hand against the glass, "You doing okay?"

Yeah. Like he would reply.

Regardless of that awareness, I am not entirely capable of stopping myself from sitting in the chair beside the incubator after I have pulled it just a bit closer, something instinctive in the back of my mind seeming to think that any form of contact for this little guy will do more good than harm. I know that it is not my place. That the book that is sitting, face down on the table beside the incubator likely means that someone will be returning shortly to look after the child themselves, and may not appreciate my interference. But, in spite of that awareness, I find that I am reaching an arm into the access port so that I can brush one finger against Abel's tiny arm.

Apparently I am in the frame of mind for pushing buttons, today…

"You are ridiculously cute, you know that? Like a little ladies' man in training," I continue, smiling faintly as I realize Abel has started to squirm just a bit, whether in response to my voice, or simply instinct, I cannot tell, "Once you hit preschool, the girls will be following you around like crazy."

"Seems to me like they already are."

Jumping in response to the unexpected voice, I find that I am turning slightly to face the source, only to discover that I am face to face with the lone woman that had arrived at the hospital with the group of bikers earlier today. Something in the way she is watching me, her eyes occasionally drifting toward where my index finger still grazes gently up and down Abel's tiny arm, seems to indicate that my presence here is not exactly what she expected. But even in the face of how her eyes have narrowed as I remain steadfast in my current position, I am cognoscente enough to realize that her expression does not quite bear the same level of hostility that it had when speaking with Tara, earlier—

Even so, I was not quite so foolish as to believe that made me lucky.

"I was just checking on him," I inform, watching the older woman as she moves to stand beside me, her eyes now firmly fixed on my hand that is inside the incubator, "Figured he could use a little company."

"That's—kind."

"That's my job."

"You go this far for all of your patients?" The woman inquires, folding both arms across her chest, and returning her gaze to my face with a look that almost—almost—has me removing my hand from the incubator to take a step back.

"I would like to think so, yes."

"Well aren't you a rare gem."

"I actually prefer to think of it as a doctor doing her job," I correct, something about the tone of her voice when she calls me a 'gem' causing my skin to crawl, even as I know on some level that any protest over the term that I choose to make will likely go unheard, "It's nothing anyone else wouldn't do."

"I don't see Doctor Perfect anywhere—"

"Doctor Knowles is otherwise occupied."

"And she left you to do her dirty work," The woman persists, apparently completely unwilling to let up in her act of casting Tara in a poor light, no matter what anyone might say to the contrary, "Can't say that I'm surprised."

"This isn't what I would classify as dirty work."

"What would you call it, then?"

"My job," I state, trying and failing to suppress the metaphorical raising of the hackles that this woman and her incessant questioning seems to provoke as I finally remove my hand from the incubator and stand to face my companion more directly, "Following up with a patient fits that general description, I would think."

"Well I'm glad to see you know where you belong."

"I do."

"Then I trust you won't object when I say I can take over from here? In the spirit of knowing where you belong—"

Aware that any form of protest I may make will be all too likely to fall on deaf ears in light of the expression that has taken over the older woman's features in this moment, I tamp down on the desire I feel to retort with a similar coldness that she has so recently shown me, instead choosing to take the higher road, and sending her what amounts to a tight smile before stepping around her and heading for the door. My hand has just barely managed to grasp the handle, when I hear my companion shifting behind me, every nerve ending I possess standing on edge as I force myself to open the door, in spite of the silent warning that all but begs for me to avoid making myself so vulnerable.

"Word to the wise, sweetheart," She begins, closing the distance between us until I am all but certain I can feel the warmth from her body radiating against my back, "You might want to think twice before diving into our family's business."

"I'm not diving into—"

"I'm not blind, Doc. I saw you making eyes at Chibs," The woman interjects, her assumption startling me into silence, and thus giving her leave to finish speaking without further interruption on my part, "And if you have a thing for the hero sort, he ain't your guy. Best if you realize that now, before you get yourself into a whole world of trouble."

I want to reply. To defend myself, and my so-called interest in Chibs at best, and at worst to give this woman a piece of my mind for thinking she has any right at all to tell me what to do. But before I get that chance, my pager starts beeping shrilly from inside my jacket pocket, forcing me to glance down at the message scrolling across its screen for a moment while my stomach drops down to the floor.

911, Room four-thirteen.

Wendy…

…

Wendy Case was not my first code. She was not the first patient I had seen that had been pushed to the very brink of hell, and dangled over the edge as some sort of live bait. But for some reason, regardless of the level of experienced I had obtained back home, with the number of overdoses and gang shootings that rolled into the emergency department, this case hit me far harder than I anticipated, only the need for fast action delaying the onset of nausea that churned at my stomach and made what little I had managed to grab for dinner a few hours prior resurface in a trashcan just a few feet down the hall from Wendy's room.

Great…

Wiping my mouth and straightening before the smell emanating from that trash can has a chance to add to my current predicament, I force myself to continue moving down the hall on shaky legs, the stares of fellow staff members, and patient's families alike causing a flush to burn against my clammy cheeks while I force my eyes to the floor in front of my feet. I cannot shake it. The feeling that someone must have given Wendy the means of overdosing in an effort to remove her from the picture entirely. And although I really do not want to contemplate the precise implications behind that thought, I find that I am entirely unable to avoid doing so, my heart pounding along against my ribcage as I move towards the elevator in hopes of taking refuge in the chapel located on the second floor.

I have never been a particularly religious person, in spite of my Irish Catholic upbringing, but something instinctive in me seems to yearn for the peace of that religious space as though it is as vital to me as the air that I breathe.

With that need in mind, I hurry to close the distance between myself and the elevator before the doors slide shut on the lone individual that stands inside, a small nod serving as the only thing I can manage by way of gratitude for their efforts in stopping those doors so that I do not have to wait. Almost immediately, my body leans against the wall at my back, my legs still trembling, and threatening to deter my stability on my own two feet as a result. And although I am nowhere near relaxed enough to do so, I persist in the act of forcing my eyes closed so that I can attempt a few steadying breaths, only to find that they are snapping open within seconds as I realize my companion has chosen to address me directly.

"Hey—you—are you okay?"

"I—yeah. I will be," I reply, swallowing past the recurrent nausea that opening my mouth to speak seems to elicit, and doing my best to keep my expression level in spite of how my hands are now gripping the railing behind me so tightly that my knuckles must be turning white, "Just ah—just finished up a tough case."

"You look a little pale, dear. Maybe you need to go sit down."

"Believe me, that is precisely what I am going to do."

"Well I just thank God for you doctors. Today and every day," The woman persists, a gentle smile taking over her features as she takes in my incredulous expression, and almost immediately seeks to explain the motive behind her words, "You do so much to help, and it really shows. One of your coworkers saved my Sarah just two days ago."

"I'm—I'm glad to hear that."

"She's on the second floor. Only six years old. If you need a pick me up, that is."

"I'll keep that in mind," I assure, managing a faint smile in spite of the fact that I can still feel my nerves jangling through my body, and finding myself just a bit pleased that the gesture appears to have the desired effect. I truly am grateful for her intervention—for the way she seems to possess a certain amount of insight as it pertains to my current mental and emotional state, and has taken that awareness and used it to attempt to ease my mind in whatever way she can. In truth, the woman reminds me a bit of my grandmother, the bittersweet realization causing my brow to furrow for a moment before the sharp ding of the elevator before its doors open onto the second floor and I begin to move in that direction.

"Thank you, again, Doctor. You mean more to the rest of us commoners than you know."

With one final nod of acknowledgement, as I appear to be momentarily at a loss for words, I watch as the elevator doors slide shut behind me before moving off towards the direction of the chapel, my hands jamming themselves into my pockets once again in an effort to mask how badly they are trembling. I know that I am probably overreacting. That past experience should render me far less shaky when it comes to sticky situations, at least medically speaking. But try though I might to avoid it, my mind cannot help but replay the events of the last hour over and over, the image of the empty syringe growing more and more persistent as I head blindly down the hallway, and turn the corner to open the chapel doors. Mercifully, I find that the room is empty, allowing me to exhale a sigh of relief before stepping inside, and taking a seat in the second pew from the back—

With the way my legs seem to give out from under me almost as soon as I begin to sit, I find that I am abundantly grateful that I chose to come here when I did, my chin coming to rest upon my hands while my elbows land on my knees so that I can begin to decompress.

Or at least, so that I can try.

…

"Hey—I'm glad I finally found you," Tara says, the sound of her voice in the otherwise quiet chapel startling me away from my own internal musings, and causing me to jump as I turn to face her while she takes the seat beside me in the pew, "I heard what happened with Wendy. You okay?"

"Yeah. I think so," I manage, leaning back against the pew, and wincing as my muscles almost immediately protest spending so much time hunched over, "I'm just glad she pulled through."

"Me too. She's got a hell of a recovery ahead of her, though."

"Detox and rehab?"

"And Gemma," Tara adds, picking at a chip in the wood of the pew in front of us with one fingernail, her brow furrowed as though she is trying to discern if she should disclose any further information, or not, "That woman is a hell of a force to be reckoned with sober."

"And Gemma is—"

"The grandmother."

"Oh," I remark, the dots suddenly connecting as I recall my encounter with the woman in the NICU before everything went sideways with Wendy, "I guess I can see what you mean."

"Yeah, she—wait—you met her?"

"Unofficially. I remember her from earlier this evening, of course, but I saw her later on, too. With Abel."

"You went to see Abel?"

"How could I not? He's a damn cute kid," I confess, aware of Tara's faint smile in response as I risk a glance her way, while one hand reaches up to tug at the hair tie securing my hair in a ponytail at the base of my skull, "Anyway, she was there. Didn't seem to appreciate my visit all that much, to be honest—"

"Jesus."

"She didn't do anything untoward, other than give me hell. And imply I had a thing for Chibs."

"Chibs?" Tara repeats, allowing a soft laugh to break free, before shaking her head, and glancing down at her lap where her hands have fallen to rest palms-flat against her thighs, "Wow."

"Yeah. Wow," I state, laughing, myself, at the idea of finding myself even remotely involved with a biker, and knowing almost immediately that Rex would literally read me the riot act if I even tried to do such a thing, "Not sure how she came by that idea."

"She has a thing for pushing herself into other people's lives."

"You sound like you have some personal experience with that."

"Remember that touchy history I mentioned?"

"I do."

"Most if it was with Gemma," Tara admits, her attention shifting to the table at the far corner of the chapel, where visitors can light a candle before saying a prayer, "Because of what I had with Jax."

"Jax. As in—"

"As in Abel's father, yes. Before college, I was—we were together."

"And she didn't approve?"

"Not by a long shot. But she hated me even more after I left to go to college. Said I broke her son's heart—"

"Tara, you can't blame yourself for what happened years ago," I interject, picking up on her downcast expression, and furrowed brow, and seizing the opportunity of reassuring her in hopes that by doing so I may inadvertently pick up on some manner of assurance, myself, "Gemma shouldn't, either."

"You're talking about a woman who definitely knows how to hold a grudge, Ellen. Forgiveness isn't a word that's in her vocabulary," Tara counters, finally managing to bring herself around to looking at me directly, and subsequently shocking me with the absolute earnestness that is so apparent in her gaze, "She's not a woman you want to cross voluntarily."

"I didn't—I didn't cross her."

"You're sure—"

"Unless you consider having a colleague's back to be 'crossing her', then yeah. I'm pretty sure."

"I think in her book that counts as the same thing."

"Well then. The blow-back isn't just about you anymore," I say, bumping my shoulder against Tara's in hopes of prompting a lightening in her mood, and finding myself more than a little surprised when the gesture actually succeeds, "We're really racking them up today, aren't we?"

"So it would seem. Probably means we should question our sanity, at this point," My companion quips, exhaling, and standing once again so that she can exit the pew before glancing back at me with a ghost of a smile playing upon her lips, "In the spirit of questioning sanity, I think I'm gonna go check on Wendy. You coming with, or did you need a few more minutes down here, first?"

"I'm good. I'll be right behind you," I supply, sending my colleague a faint smile, and watching her head toward the door of the chapel before I stand on my own two feet and head towards the table housing the candles and a box of matches on its surface. Within seconds, I have succeeded in striking a match, and lowering the flame to one of the candles that remains unlit, my lips puckering so that I can extinguish the match, and place it in the small bowl of water set beside the candles to prevent a fire. And although my eyes stray from the flickering flames on the table, to the small crucifix while I cross myself out of habit, the small prayer I leave behind is to my father, not to God…

Watch over Abel and Wendy for me, Da. Seems they need your protection more than I do.

…


	8. Lesson One

"Wow. You look like crap."

"Gee, thanks, Rex," I gripe, rolling my eyes and following after him as he leads the way from his car, to my front door, "Just what a girl always wants to hear."

"Hey, I thought you were the one always grousing at me to be straight with you. Seemed like as good a time as any to follow through on that."

"Maybe we can stick to lying about some things."

"Fine," Rex consents, opening the door, and stepping aside to give himself room for the ridiculously grandiose gesture he makes for me to enter the home first, "You are the most beautiful woman I have ever had the good fortune to look upon."

"Shut up."

"No one else in the entire world can possibly hold a candle to your beauty—"

"Rex, I mean it—"

"The stars could never shine bright enough to rival your eyes—"

"Okay! I get the picture, smart-ass," I laugh, swatting at Rex's stomach as I move past him, and exhaling in relief as the reality of being home after what seemed like ages hit home, "God it feels good to be back here."

"Tough day?"

"You could say that."

"We gonna talk about it, then? Or would you rather start drinking first," Rex inquires, shutting the door behind us, and flicking on the light switch despite the fact that I almost automatically flinch in response, after having grown so accustomed to the darkness of his car.

"You suggesting I'm an alcoholic?"

"Only if I am, too."

"Misery does seem to love company," I remark, toeing off my shoes, and hanging my jacket on the coat rack on the wall just beside the door, before moving into the den and flopping onto the sofa with what was perhaps an exaggerated sense of exhaustion, "And you did mention wanting to try your hand at tending bar—"

"Would that be my order to fix the lady a drink?"

"What does it look like?"

"An order," Rex replies, grinning as I slump back against the sofa cushions, and stooping down to rummage through the liquor cabinet in the same motion, "As my lady commands, I suppose."

"Thank you."

"You're welcome. Any particular drink in mind? Or shall I surprise you, and hope for the best?"

"Surprise me," I state, closing my eyes for a moment, and allowing the steady warmth of Rex's answering laugh to seep into my bones, despite how the events of the day seem all but determined to wiggle their way back into my mind. I would be lying if I were to pretend I was not surprised by my apparent failure in preventing such a thing, given how I never had been able to succeed in the past, either. But no matter how many past failures have racked up in my mind, I still cannot entirely fight my aggravation that this moment appears to be one more in a long string of them, my expression faltering for only a moment, as the telltale clinking of glasses moving against one another reaches my ears, signifying Rex is pouring our drinks.

"What is it?" My companion inquires, heading over towards the sofa with glasses in hand, and taking a seat beside me, himself, before placing the beverage intended for me on the table before us, "Your face—"

"More comments about my looks, Rex?"

"No. This is serious. You look like—like something happened, and you're deciding whether or not to come clean."

"You taking up mind-reading after you learn how to tend bar?" I retort, one brow cocked as I force my eyes open once again, and lean forward to take a conciliatory sip of my drink before going on, "You might be ahead of the game, here."

"That your way of saying I'm right?"

"It might be."

"And do you plan on elaborating any further? Or will I have to drag it out of you by force?" Rex inquires, tossing back some of his own drink, and wincing a bit as the alcohol burns its way down his throat. I can tell, of course, just by looking at him, that he will be true to his word, though the 'force' mentioned is likely nothing I truly need to worry about. And even in light of the fact that I can tell he is not about to back down, regardless of how much I may want him to at times, I find that I am not entirely willing to hold back, this time at least, my brow furrowing for a moment before I take another drink in the hopes that it will steel my nerves for what we are about to discuss.

"I saw Chibs again."

"As a patient?"

"Extended family of one, from the looks of it," I state, aware of how Rex's expression seems to automatically tense, and seeking to reassure him as best I can with the pressure of my hand coming to rest upon his forearm, "Rex, we've been over this—he's not a threat."

"Forgive me if I don't automatically take your word on that. What'd he do?"

"What?"

"What'd he do? For you to be acting this skittish, it must've been something significant—"

"He is not the problem. One of his friends—"

"Who?" Rex demanded, the hardness of the single word momentarily cutting off my own attempts to explain myself, and forcing me to look him in the eye despite how I am almost reluctant to do so, not knowing exactly what I will see. In this moment, I am somehow very much aware that I am looking at the trained agent, not the man that had been both a friend and a protector ever since my father introduced us what felt like ages ago. But even with as much as that realization frightens me, I force myself to resist the urge to look away, my hand dropping to Rex's hand so that our fingers can thread together on instinct before I am able to speak further.

"Clay."

"This 'Clay' have a last name?"

"Sure. Not that I got it out of him," I confess, pursing my lips for a moment as I replace my drink on the table before the sofa, and shifting a bit so that my torso is facing Rex while my hand remains clutched in his own, "And he didn't really—do anything, per se—"

"Your face tells a different story."

"He was just—he was a bit of an ass. That's all. Tried to insinuate I didn't know my ass from a hole in the ground when it came to his grandson's case."

"What's wrong with the kid?"

"Gastroschisis. Heart defect. Mom was a junkie—"

"Jesus," Rex breathes, the pad of his thumb running idle patterns against the skin of my palm, and causing me to shiver for a moment before he is reaching forward with his free hand to brush a stray lock of blonde hair away from my face and behind my ear, "He gonna be okay?"

"There's no way to know that, yet. And that is precisely the answer that this Clay character did not want to hear."

"Well you're obviously giving it all you have."

"He didn't seem to feel that way about it," I counter, glancing down at Rex's thumb as it continues to move against my skin, and frowning a bit as I find myself recalling what Tara had said about my would-be body guard, despite my efforts to prevent it, "And apparently he's not the only one that's a bit skeptical about Tara and I, and our ability to get the kid out of this alive."

"This 'Chibs' guy jump on the bandwagon, too?"

"No. No, definitely not."

"Then who?"

"Clay's wife. The grandma."

"They'll be changing their tune when you and Tara save this kid, though," Rex persists, whatever ferocity that had been apparent in his gaze fading away as a sudden determination to reassure me seems to take its place, "They'd be stupid not to."

"I don't really think either of them see it that way."

"They will."

"Rex, have you ever once thought that perhaps you're the only one that seems to think I can do no wrong?" I ask, withdrawing my hand, and running my fingers through my hair, before reaching for my drink once again, and downing a few gulps of the burning liquid in spite of the fact that it brings tears to my eyes in response, "I mean—no one's perfect."

"No. No, they're not, but that doesn't mean I still can't want to slug the bastard that doubts you without even giving you a fair shot to do right by him."

"Their grandkid is literally one step away from death's door. I think their being out of sorts is justified, in this case."

"That doesn't give anyone the right to be an asshole just because they can," Rex argues, surprising me once again with the vehemence in his tone as he reaches once again for my hand, and I find I am giving it to him without a fight, "You don't need anyone else doubting you. You do that enough on your own."

"Gee. Thanks."

"I mean it," He insists, strong fingers giving my hand a squeeze, before he is lifting it to place a feather-light kiss against my knuckles, "You're too hard on yourself. And if I can't stop you from putting yourself through the wringer, you can bet I'll be doing whatever I can to prevent anyone else from doing the same."

"Rex—"

"Don't even try to argue with me, here. You won't win, kid."

"Is that a threat?"

"Nope. It's a promise."

Unable to resist the frown that spreads across my features in response to the absolute determination in Rex's assertion, I glance back towards my drink that is still clutched in my free hand, the contents of the glass giving me absolutely no answer, in spite of my foolish hope that it would somehow prove illuminating. Of course, I ought to have predicted this outcome—that Rex would go to any lengths he found necessary to get me to believe that I could do this. But no matter how many times I attempted to tell myself that the man had a point, I could not seem to fully believe it, myself, and whether I wanted to admit it or not, my encounter with both Clay and Gemma only have my doubts increasing.

Something Rex seems to have noticed, whether I truly wanted him to or not.

"Hey—you still with me, sweetheart?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm still with you," I promise, shaking myself minutely in the hopes that the gesture will succeed in bringing me back to the present so that I can focus on the matter at hand, "I just—I guess I'm still letting people get into my head, is all."

"Well I think I may have found a way to get around that," Rex begins, something in the nature of the slow grin that spreads across his features as he watches me quirk a brow in almost immediate skepticism only serving to render me even more ill at ease than I already am, "You're off tomorrow right?"

"Yeah. They've got me doing thirty-six hours on, forty-eight off at the moment—"

"Okay. So you'll see what I'm talking about tomorrow morning, then."

"Rex, what the hell—" I protest, only to find that I am effectively stalled by the sensation of yet another squeeze of my hand that Rex gives before releasing me once again, and standing to swoop my glass from me so that he can head back to the kitchen to refill it, "What on earth are you thinking?"

"You'll see. Trust me, sweetheart, I think you're gonna love it."

Regardless of the apparent enthusiasm in his words, something tells me 'love' is about the furthest thing from what I will really be feeling whenever Rex decides to reveal exactly what it is that he has planned…

…

"Okay—who the hell names their gym 'Lumpy's'?"

"Someone with a sense of humor, apparently," Rex replies, shutting the door of the car behind him, and moving to stand at my side so that his arm can brush against my own while he sends me what is so obviously meant to be an encouraging smile, "I told you I was gonna teach you self-defense, didn't I?"

"Yeah, but I kind of figured that our lessons wouldn't be on public display," I remark, glancing with no short supply of skepticism at the wide open floor to ceiling windows that line the front of the gym, through which its occupants can clearly be seen in various degrees of exertion, "We couldn't do this in my backyard?"

"Nope. If I'm teaching you how to kick some ass, I'm doing it by the book."

"Which translates as everyone that decides to look through those windows is going to see me getting my ass handed to me every day."

"Not if you pay attention."

"Right. Something tells me even if I do my best it won't be quite enough," I grumble, aware that Rex is apparently intent upon ignoring my protests in favor of holding the door to the gym open and waiting for me to pass through. Reluctantly, I do so, my nose almost immediately scrunching as the smell of plastic matting and sweaty bodies hits me like a ton of bricks. But before I can manage any comment about that very fact, I find that Rex is slinging an arm around my shoulder to guide me further inside while the door swings shut behind us, his lips pressing against my temple for a moment before he is hailed by an elderly man stationed behind a desk that seems to know him already, on sight.

"Lumpy—"

"Hey, Rex," The elderly man acknowledges, nodding at my companion, and causing my eyebrow to quirk up as the familiarity of the gesture sparks a suspicion that, until now, had never even come to mind, "This the little lady in question, I take it?"

"She is—Lumpy, this is Ellen Shore."

"Hello, Miss Shore. Pleasure to meet you."

"You—you too," I manage, taking the proffered hand that Lumpy extends my way, and forcing a smile to my lips in hopes of not appearing rude, regardless of how the fact that this encounter was obviously pre-planned, "I take it you and Rex have already met."

"He was in yesterday, asking if he could get on schedule to help a woman he knew. Figured it was the least I could do to help the guy out."

"I imagine he painted my situation as akin to a damsel in distress?"

"Nope. Just thought you could use some extra moves, in case you ever needed 'em," Lumpy says, clapping Rex on the shoulder, and sending me a smile once again before pulling back and gesturing to the room at large, "Feel free to use anything you see fit, Mister Taylor. Let me know if I can help."

"Sure thing, Lumpy, thank you."

"Any time, kid. Any time."

Clearly taking Lumpy's invitation as leave to move forward, Rex relinquishes his hold around my shoulders in favor of scanning the room to see where we ought to start first, his eyes carefully avoiding my gaze for the moment as though he can sense how my own eyes have narrowed at the subterfuge he did not entirely succeed in concealing. Truthfully, I am not upset—not really, no matter how the fact that Rex has clearly been doing his own work behind the scenes has reared its head in this rather obvious fashion. But in spite of the reality of that particular situation, I would be a fool to pretend I am not grateful for the implication behind the gesture, my gaze tracking Rex as he heads over towards a vacant boxing ring before turning back to gesture me to follow him there.

"Figured we could get started with defensive technique," He begins, watching me carefully as I take step after slow, cautious step, towards the ring, as though expecting some form of imminent retaliation, "Once you get proficient with that, we can start working on offensive stuff."

"Exactly how long do you think that'll take?" I question, perching on the edge of the ring, with my back against the ropes that cordon it off, "My 'proficiency', I mean."

"That all depends on how much you put into it."

"How much I put into it?"

"Yep," Rex confirms, reaching for the pair of gloves that rest near the edge of the ring, and tossing them my way, a satisfied half-grin crossing over his features as I catch them before they can thwack me on the face, "Put 'em on, sweetheart. Time to walk you through the ropes."

"You're serious," I press, knowing before Rex even replies that he is not about to back down, and that if I was smart, I would simply don the gloves, and climb into the ring after him to get this whole thing started.

"As a heart attack. Put the gloves on, kid. It's time to see what you're made of."

In spite of Rex's apparent confidence in my abilities, such as they are, something tells me this is going to hurt…

…

"You didn't do so bad, you know," Rex acknowledges, massaging his shoulder from where I had managed a retaliatory swipe despite his insistence that we focus on blocking attempts at attack, only, "Couple more sessions and you might just kick my ass."

"Ha-ha. Very funny."

"I'm serious!"

"Sure you are," I tease, rolling my eyes, and dabbing the washcloth Lumpy had given me against the cut on my lip where an attempted blow of Rex's struck true, "Or you'll end up putting me in the ground."

"I'm sorry, El. I was trying to pull my punches—"

"I don't want you to."

"Ellen—"

"I don't," I insist, my words coming out perhaps a bit harsher than I desired as I internally recoiled against hearing my falsified identity coming from him, of all people, in spite of how I knew full well why he had done so, "If I'm gonna learn, it's got to be as if I'm—as if I'm actually in a situation where I need to use what you're teaching me to survive. That's the only way this'll work."

"I don't want to hurt you."

"You won't."

"I already did," Rex states, stepping just a bit closer towards me, and gently taking the washcloth from my hand so that he can get a better look at the cut on my lip himself, "If I go all out before you're ready—"

"Then I'll learn even faster. Seems to me like that's a good thing, no matter which way you cut it."

"Anything in particular inspiring this little idea of yours? Something I should know about?"

"No, Rex," I begin, only to find myself cut short from any further reply as the jingling of the bell that is tied to the front door catches my attention, and I find myself turning towards it as though drawn by some magnetic force I can barely comprehend. I recognize two of the three men that have just walked inside, my arms coming to cross over my chest even as I realize Rex is now hovering at my side while he observes the situation, as well. Already, I can feel the tension running off of him in waves, though it is rather obvious, at least to me, that the attention of the men who just entered is anywhere but on us. But before I can make any attempt at assuring him of that, I find myself once again distracted, this time by the third man that entered behind Chibs and Half-Sack.

I'd be a liar if I were to pretend he didn't have the most compelling pair of blue eyes I'd ever seen in my life…

…


	9. First Strike

"Hey—you okay?" Rex inquires, effectively startling me out of my unanticipated reverie, and causing my cheeks to flush as I realize his expression reflects absolutely nothing save for legitimate concern. Once again, I feel the nagging sense of guilt as a result—the fact that his concern was even necessary to begin with causing my teeth to worry at my lower lip for just a moment, before I shake myself, and hope that I can appear as convincing as I need to be to ease his mind.

"I'm good."

"You're sure?"

"Yeah. Yeah, I am," I confirm, blinking a few times as though to dispel a fog, and forcing myself to look at Rex directly, in spite of the fact that I have just witnessed the man that so effectively drew my attention breaking off from Chibs and Half-Sack, and heading towards the back of the gym, before I summon the wherewithal to go on, "We ready to go?"

"In a minute. I just have to talk to Lumpy about one more thing."

"Want me to wait at the car?"

"Only if you want to," Rex replies, risking a glance at the three men who have just arrived, his brow furrowing as though he fears for my safety if I chose to walk by them on my own, "Or you could come with me—"

"I think I'll wait at the car. It's a bit muggy in here," I persist, placing what I hope is a reassuring squeeze on Rex's forearm, before I am stooping to reach for my gym bag, and slinging the strap over my shoulder, "See you in a few?"

"Yeah. See you in a few."

Before Rex can find some reason to protest my departure, I sidle past him and head towards the door, squaring my shoulders in hopes that the gesture will somehow make me appear less skittish than I truly feel. I am well aware, of course, that my path will lead me directly toward the men whose arrival caused me to fall silent in the first place, every bit as much as I am aware that Rex has likely picked up on that fact, as well. If I were to turn around right now, I have the distinct feeling that he would still be rooted to the same spot in which I left him, despite his need to speak with Lumpy again. And although I am half tempted to do exactly that, if for no other reason than to try and get him to see that I will be just fine, I resist, instead choosing to keep my eyes facing forward until the door is within reach.

In retrospect, I suppose I should have realized my sudden decision to attempt to get past Chibs unnoticed was a foolish plan right from the start…

"We've got to stop meetin' like this, lass. People'll start to talk."

"Hi Chibs."

"How are ya, sweetheart?"

"Well enough," I reply, suddenly very aware that I am in nothing but a tank top and shorts, and deciding to fold my arms across my chest as a result, "Didn't know you ah—you used this gym."

"We've been friends o' Lumpy's for a long time," Chibs informs, his expression seeming to indicate there is more to that particular story than meets the eye, though I do not quite possess the courage to ask him about it outright, "Never thought to see you here, though."

"What, a girl can't want to work off some steam?"

"Seems someone might'a done the same to you."

"Oh—no, that's—it's not what you think," I stammer, my brow furrowing as I realize entirely too late that the cut on my lip seems to have given Chibs the wrong impression, "Apparently Rex thought it would be a good idea to start giving me self-defense lessons."

"An' he didn't know he was supposed to pull his punches?"

"He—I asked him not to."

"Christ, lass, why the hell would ye do that?"

"Call it foolish ambition."

"Apparently so," Chibs laughs, shaking his head in obvious amusement over my situation, and offering me a faint smile as he takes note of the renewed flushing of my cheeks, "I'm just messin' with ye, ye know."

"Of course."

"No hard feelings?"

"Absolutely not," I assure, glancing behind me to ascertain if Rex is still observing my actions, or if he has finally found Lumpy, and discovering that in the wake of my relative preoccupation with Chibs, the stranger who had so effectively garnered my attention has returned to our group, instead. Yet again, I am forced to acknowledge my relative state of appearance, some sort of instinct prompting me to take a half-step backward despite my desire to remain aloof. It takes only seconds for me to come to the realization that the polar opposite of Chibs, though even that fact is not entirely enough to cause my curiosity to fade.

I suppose that reality in and of itself ought to brand me as a fool.

"How you doin', doll?" He inquires, something not all that far from mischief inherent in his expression as he takes the liberty of leaning against the corner of another nearby boxing ring, and makes absolutely no effort to hide the fact that he is looking me up and down at the exact same time. In spite of the fact that I know the act should be offensive, I cannot help but admit that my skin seems to tingle in response, as though his fingertips grazed against my skin, instead. And although I know that I should be making some sort of effort to reply to his inquiry, I cannot seem to come up with anything even remotely coherent, my teeth coming to chew at my lower lip for a moment before I recognize the sound of Chibs' laughter and turn my attention towards that noise instead.

"Jesus Christ, brother, I think ye scared the poor girl speechless."

"Or she likes what she sees."

"I—no, that's—no."

"So you don't like what you see—"

"That's not what I said," I begin, only to find that I am silently kicking myself as soon as I take note of the self-satisfied expression that is beginning to spread across the stranger's features, and shake my head in mild exasperation, "There's no way I can answer that question, and not catch hell for it, is there?"

"Nope."

"And you two aren't going to step in and help?"

"No reason to, lass," Chibs states, very clearly doing what he can to suppress his own amusement at my expense, though his expression has my mouth turning up just a bit at the corners in spite of my desire to resist it while I reply.

"And to think you did so well coming to my aid the other day—"

"She's got a point, you know," Half-Sack interjects, his cheeks flushing just a bit in the wake of my small smile of gratitude for his assistance, though he clears his throat and squares his shoulders almost immediately thereafter, as though daring any one of us to comment on his momentary embarrassment out loud, "We did."

"Aye, boyo, but this is different."

"Why's that?"

"Because I ain't Darby, Prospect, that's why," The man standing beside me retorts, his exasperation with the younger of his two companions apparent, before he is glancing back at Chibs with an expression that is disconcertingly unreadable, "Don't tell me she knows the guy."

"Arsehole was tryin' to make it that way."

"Jesus Christ."

"For the record, he wasn't successful," I add in, crossing my arms over my chest as the stranger's blue eyes roam over my torso once again, this time with perhaps a bit too much familiarity for me to be truly comfortable, though I still seem to possess enough foolish pride to attempt to portray the situation as one that I was not entirely incapable of handling on my own, "If anyone's curious, that is—"

"An' I take it that encounter is the reason yer friend brought ye here, aye?" Chibs supplies, exhaling and running a gloved hand through wind-blown hair in response to my curt nod, before he turns towards both Half-Sack, and the man standing at my side that I have yet to be formally introduced to. I can tell that the look that passes between them is significant, though I am also aware, at least on some level, that even if I asked them about it outright, they would not disclose the meaning behind it to me, no matter what I may do to attempt to convince them. But before I even have the chance to determine if I am going to remain silent, or attempt to gain more information, regardless of how fruitless that attempt may be, I find I am once again rendered silent, this time by the sudden vehemence in Chibs' tone as he steps a bit closer towards me before I realize his hand has come to rest upon my shoulder.

"He bothered ya any more since then?"

"No. It was just the one time."

"Yer sure?"

"Of course," I confirm, my brow furrowing as I take in the obvious skepticism in his expression, and a knot of apprehension forms in my gut in response, "Does that—does that surprise you?"

"Just doesn't make sense. Your man brings you here to teach you how to kick ass because of one random encounter?"

"Seems to me the reasons behind that decision are my business, not yours."

Rex…

"The reason behind her busted lip your business too?"

"That was an accident."

"You sure about that?" The blue-eyed stranger persists, never even flinching as Rex straightens in response to the obvious doubt that is so apparent in the remark, and steps close enough to him that they are nearly toe to toe.

"Yeah. Yeah I think I am."

Clearly every bit aware that our conversation has taken a rather sudden turn for the worst within the last few minutes, alone, I find that Chibs is stepping between our two would-be adversaries, one hand resting on each of their shoulders so that he can nudge them apart before things escalate even further than they already have.

"Easy, boys. No need to be swingin' fists. We all want the same thing, here."

"Oh yeah? And what the hell is that?" Rex demands, shrugging out from beneath Chibs' hand, and remaining seemingly oblivious to the fact that I have now closed the distance between us until I am effectively between him and the stranger he has taken such an immediate dislike to while Chibs takes the liberty of answering his inquiry despite the obvious aggravation in his tone.

"Keepin' this wee lassie safe."

"I think I've got that covered, thanks—"

"Doesn't look like it from here, man."

"Okay, enough. From both of you," I finally grind out, my apprehension over the very obvious tension in the air, in combination with how keyed up I appear to be from the manner in which the blue-eyed biker's gaze seems to keep roaming back to me, in spite of the fact that Rex is now aware of my closer proximity, and has taken it upon himself to tug me closer to his side as a result, "I'm not some toy that you can win after deciding who has the bigger ego."

"Ellen, that's not what this is."

"You're not the only one I'm talking to, Rex," I state, forcing my gaze to shift from the familiarity of his features, to the man who seems capable of so easily rendering me incoherent, instead, and praying with all I have that I can manage what I have to say next without flushing, or stumbling over my own words, "You don't even know me. You have no right to act like you know a thing about what's best for me, got it?"

"Girl's got fire, Chibby. I see why you like her."

As soon as the words come out of his mouth, I know what comes next, though that awareness was still not enough to spur me to action in time to stop it, my eyes widening in belated horror while I watch Rex step forward so that his fist can collide with the stranger's cheekbone. For a moment, after the fact, I remain motionless, my heart seeming to stutter to a stop within my chest as I watch the man stagger backwards from the impact of the blow, his expression indicating that he would love nothing more than to repay Rex in kind for what he has just done.

Perhaps it is that look in and of itself that prompts me to act, instead of standing rooted to the spot, instinct finally kicking in in enough time for me to come to stand between Rex and the blue eyed stranger once again, as though I truly think I stand a chance of stopping him if he decides to go through me to get to his intended target.

"Don't—don't. We're leaving. Now," I demand, taking a step back, and finding that I am relieved as hell when Rex does the same, despite how I can feel the steady pressure of his hand at the small of my back, "You should get that cut on your cheek looked at before it gets infected. Reconstructive surgery on the face can be a bitch."

"Heard you were a doctor. Why don't you take care of me yourself?"

"I could, I suppose," I begin, turning to push Rex towards the door, and choosing to ignore his skeptical expression in favor of turning my head over my shoulder to finish my explanation so that I can leave the gym myself, before I lose my nerve.

"But that wouldn't really allow me to keep my oath to do no harm, now would it?"

I am out the door almost immediately after I finish speaking, the door jingling softly as it swings to a close, but even my haste to leave is not entirely enough to persuade me to resist one final look at the stranger's face as he stands beside Chibs to watch me leave, a small smile of satisfaction tugging at my lips as I realize that even if it was only for a moment, I appear to have caught him off guard…

That victory, no matter how small it may be in reality, is definitely worth it, no matter the consequences that may come about as a result.

…

"Have you lost your god-damned mind? I thought you were going to wait in the car!"

"Obviously something came up," I reply, reaching out so that I can snag Rex's hand before he succeeds in pulling it away, my brow furrowing as I take note of the bruising that has already formed around the open skin on his knuckles, "Hand me that Q-tip, would you?"

"It's fine—"

"Hand me the Q-tip, Rex. And the antiseptic."

Apparently catching up on the fact that I will not take no for an answer, no matter how much he tries to protest, Rex does as he is told, his eyes searching my features as he does so as if in hopes that he might detect a softening in my mood. Of course, I know very well that I should not be upset with him. Not really, since everything he did at the gym was only for my protection. But in spite of how that awareness is never far from the forefront of my mind, I seem incapable of using it as a means to get myself to relax, my teeth coming to worry at my lower lip while I dab the Q-tip into a bit of the antiseptic before stepping just a bit closer to Rex where he sits at my kitchen table so that I can take care of the cuts on his hand.

"You didn't have to do that, you know," I state, shifting a bit until my thigh brushes against his, and frowning as I realize I seem to have inadvertently placed myself between his legs without even realizing it, "If Chibs or Half-Sack had decided to step in—"

"I thought you said they were the good guys."

"I did! But you assaulted their friend—"

"The asshole deserved it," Rex persists, ignoring my scoff of protest, and wincing as some of the antiseptic comes into direct contact with one of the cuts on his hand in time with my reply.

"For what? Insulting your ego?"

"Why the hell are you so intent on defending him?"

"I'm not—"

"Could've fooled me."

"Really? You're going to question my judgment on this?" I inquire, skepticism heavy in my tone as I dab the Q-tip against another one of the cuts on his hand, well-aware of yet another wince that he gives in response, "I'm not the one that tried to get into a fight with a biker."

"No. You just wanted to make friends with him."

Caught off guard by the apparent vehemence in Rex's tone, I find that I can do nothing but remain silent for the moment, my attention now entirely riveted upon his hand as I finish dabbing the wounds and bruises with antiseptic, and set the Q-tip aside on the kitchen table in favor of reaching for the gauze bandages I set out to wrap around his hand. Though I truly wish to ignore it, I cannot help but notice that my hands are trembling, a sigh of resignation escaping as I pause in the act of bandaging his hand, and fight back against the sudden sting of tears at the backs of my eyes. Of course I ought to have realized that it would take next to no time at all for Rex to pick up on my sudden dejection, such as it was, the sensation of his uninjured hand tucking itself beneath my chin so that he can lift my face until my eyes meet his own causing one of the tears I had been fighting against to slide, unchecked, down my cheek.

So much for keeping my emotions in check…

"I'm sorry, Rea," He says, startling me with the use of the nickname he has had for me ever since we first met, particularly as it was because of his insistence that he had only ever referred to me by my alias since we arrived in Charming, in the first place, even when we were alone, "I didn't mean that—"

"I know."

"You sure?"

"Of course," I confirm, forcing a faint smile to my lips, and suppressing a shiver as I register the sensation of the pad of Rex's thumb moving to brush my errant tear away. Before I am fully aware of it, he is using his injured hand to pull me still closer, until my forehead rests against his own, the little sigh he gives causing a few loose tendrils of my hair to tickle against the skin of my neck. And although better judgment seems to indicate I should pull away and return to the task of tending to his hand, I remain exactly where I am for just a moment or two longer, the faint scent of Rex's familiar cologne tickling my nostrils, and bringing a more genuine smile to my lips as a result.

"Has anyone ever told you you're too protective for your own good?"

"I think the slight uptick in grey hairs I find every morning might have mentioned it," Rex replies, sharing in my faint laughter, and dropping the hand that was resting against my cheek to my hip, so that he can give it a gentle squeeze, "Those are all you, by the way."

"Good. I have to earn my keep somehow."

"You do more than that, Rea. I think you know that."

Comforted by both the words, and the gentle pressure of Rex's hand upon my hip, I find that I am better able to tend to his hand, the act of shifting backward just a bit so that I can return to the task at hand bringing a small frown to his lips before it is disappearing entirely. With the task of bandaging his hand to occupy my thoughts, I also find myself pleased to realize that I am able to push the encounter at Lumpy's gym to the back of my mind, at least for the time-being. And in spite of the fact that I am fully aware that the minute I find some downtime, my thoughts will once again be utterly consumed by both Rex's actions, and those of the man whose name I had yet to discover as well, I force myself to remain fully in the present, now, my fingertips pressing gently against the clasp holding the edges of the bandage on Rex's hand together for a moment, before I pull away completely and examine my handiwork from a distance.

"You're all set, now. Just keep the bandages, and the wounds themselves clean for tonight, and I'll check on it again tomorrow after work."

"You know I only did what I did to protect you, right?"

"Rex—"

"I did," He persists, reaching for me with his uninjured hand once again, and succeeding in threading our fingers together so that he can pull me back towards him, "I did, and I'd do it again in a heartbeat."

"That's the point. You shouldn't have to fight all my battles for me. I can—"

"You can what? Fight them yourself?"

"Can you blame me for wanting to try?"

"Given what we're up against, I think in this case, I can."

"Seriously, Rex?" I protest, unable to stop the frown from marring my brow despite my almost immediate knowledge that he does not mean his assertion to cause offense, "Don't you think it might be beneficial to find someone we can trust in this town?"

"If you're asking me to trust a trio of bikers that neither of us know a thing about, you're barking up the wrong tree."

"I'm asking you to trust me. To trust my judgment. Aside from the new guy, I—I think we can afford to give Chibs and Half-Sack a chance."

I can tell that Rex is not entirely willing to take my words at face value, despite how he has done a rather decent job of schooling his expression into something that makes it appear that he is at least partially willing to listen to what it is I have to say. And although I am not blind to the potential foolhardiness in my desire to trust Chibs and his young friend, in spite of all that I have been through that practically screams that I do the opposite, I cannot bring myself to stop, something instinctive all but insisting that they can be trusted no matter all the signs that might indicate the opposite.

"You're really not backing down on this, are you?" Rex inquires, resignation taking over his features even though he seems capable enough of managing a smile for my benefit while the pad of his thumb traces idle patterns against the skin of my palm.

"No. I'm not."

"Can you promise me one thing, then? Just the one? And I'll do my best to let you do your thing when it comes to Chibs, at the very least?"

"Sure," I assent, glancing down at our entwined fingers, and chewing at my lower lip as I find I am incapable of pulling my hand free, even if I wanted to, "Anything, Rex, you know that."

"Promise me you won't go looking for these guys. The mystery man, in particular," Rex pleads, startling me with the earnest nature of his words, and causing my cheeks to flush just a bit as I realize his eyes appear to have become irrevocably locked with my own, "You're right—you aren't a toy that goes to the highest bidder, but with the way he was looking at you, I don't think he'd let not winning that bid stop him from taking what he wanted."

No matter how much I want to protest—to assure Rex that he is definitely wrong about the man's intentions, I cannot seem to persuade myself to do so, my memory of the exact way those blue eyes seemed to drift over my frame as though it was his to do with as he pleased returning with a vengeance, and causing an eerie combination of fear, and intrigue to bubble up in my chest as a result. I know that taking such an interest in a man that is so very obviously out of my league must mean that I am insane, or at least that my judgment is impaired enough to force me to doubt my capability of holding true to Rex's request, no matter how I may desire to give him the promise he seems to desire so fiercely. But regardless of my own doubts, I force myself to manage a faint nod in agreement to my companion's terms, my attention once again focusing upon his features and discerning almost immediately that he appears at least partially relaxed knowing he has my agreement to his terms.

"I'm going to hold you to this, you know," He begins, squeezing my hand, and looping his other arm around my waist while he stands so that he can more easily pull me against his chest, "Don't make me regret loosening the metaphorical leash, here."

"I'll try my best."

After all, whether right or wrong, I really cannot seem to deny Rex anything he asks…

…


	10. Detour

"Ouch. That looks like it hurts," Tara remarks, pointing to the cut on my lip, and lifting a brow as the gesture causes me to lift a hand up to cover the blemish almost immediately as a result, "Do I ask?"

"It's probably better if you don't," I state, frowning as I accept the coffee cup from the barista, and step to the side to allow its warmth to seep into my palms while Tara waits for her own cup in my place, "It's a bit embarrassing."

"Well that makes me want to know more, not less."

"That wasn't the intent."

"Are you going to put me out of my misery, then? Or should I start to guess what happened and we'll see how long it takes me to get it right?" Tara quips, sending me a grin in response to the exaggerated roll of the eyes I enlist in an effort to hide my renewed sense of embarrassment over what had transpired the day prior, "I confess, I'm a pretty good guesser."

"Rex took me to Lumpy's and I proved that I'm crap at blocking punches."

"Wow."

"Yeah. I was hoping to spare you some of the fall-out from my embarrassment."

"How's that working out for you?"

"Judging by the satisfaction on your face alone? Not so well," I admit, taking a sip of my coffee, and wincing as the liquid proves to be still too hot for consumption, "Though I think I'm still faring better than Rex."

"Get him good, did you?"

"No. He's just—a bit more torn up about it than I would've thought, given that we both went into it knowing one of us might end up with a few bumps and bruises."

"That's not all that surprising, Ellen."

"Oh? Why not?"

"Think about it," Tara advises, accepting her own coffee from the barista, and taking the liberty of leading us over to one of the wrought iron tables so that we can each take a seat, "You can't have forgotten what we discussed over lunch the other day already—"

"I haven't."

"Good. I'm not ready to lose you to dementia just yet."

"Ha-ha. Very funny," I retort, shaking my head and allowing a smile of resignation to cross my features as Tara sends me an answering laugh of her own, and the sound provides me with the wherewithal to contradict her apparent supposition before she can put it into words, "And before you say it, that's not what this is."

"No?"

"No."

"Well keep telling yourself that, because I think you're wrong," Tara states, sending me a faint smile to ensure I do not take her words as anything other than an honest confession, before going on, "But that isn't what you want to tell me about, is it?"

"What makes you say that?"

"The look on your face right now, for one."

"What look on my face?" I scoff, my brow furrowing although I know full-well that all of my efforts at appearing ignorant of what Tara already seems to suspect will be utterly useless in light of how she is now watching me as though certain that if she waits just a moment longer, my confession will be imminent, "You really are determined to see something more at play here, aren't you?"

"Only because I know there is."

"And you're not going to rest until you get the truth?"

"We've got a long shift ahead of us, Ellen. And I'm used to biding my time," Tara begins, grinning at my rather obvious frown, and managing a shrug to convey an innocence that is only for show, "I have a feeling you'll tell me on your own sooner or later."

"Confident, aren't you?"

"I think that in this case, I can afford to be."

"Ran into Chibs, Half-Sack, and some other guy at the gym, too," I blurt, disappointed at my own lack of restraint, and yet still knowing that the truth would have come out sooner or later, anyway, in the wake of both Tara's persistence, and my own niggling thoughts of doubt over the encounter as a whole that seemed rather more than a little determined to make themselves known no matter what I wished for, myself, "Rex didn't—it got a bit ugly."

"There it is."

"He doesn't seem to think I can fend for myself, where they're concerned."

"Don't take offense to this, but I think he might be right."

"What, you're on the whole 'they're bad eggs' bandwagon, too?"

"Some of them are," Tara tells me, her expression losing all quality of teasing that it held just moments ago, and causing my shoulders to slump just a bit as I realize my heated defense of men I barely know probably does seem a bit foolish, given the circumstances, "You're probably better off steering clear of them."

"But Chibs—"

"Is one of the good ones. I know. But that doesn't mean that all the others that come with him are the same."

Remaining silent in the wake of her words, I find that I am powerless to do anything other than accept them at face value, a frown marring my features as I turn my attention to the task of picking at a fleck of paint on the table top in lieu of looking at her, directly. I realize, rather belatedly, that I am almost ashamed of my blind trust, though I know on some level that I will not be able to abandon it so easily, either. And before I can fully stop it, I find that I am giving voice to my silent concerns, despite the fact that I am not entirely certain that Tara will be able to ease them any more than I could, on my own.

"I guess I—I'm just looking for connections, here," I confess, my voice cracking and causing me to once again force my eyes to the table top that rests between us, "Apparently I'm looking for them in all the wrong places, though."

"No one's judging you here, Ellen. I just—it's not my place, but I think I have to side with Rex on this one. You're safer if you keep these people in your rear-view."

"Are you telling me that from personal experience?"

Almost as soon as the words leave my mouth, I regret them, my thoughts immediately flicking to the concern that whatever newfound sense of trust and camaraderie that I have established with this woman will disappear entirely as a result of my foolhardy desire to get to the bottom of something I can never understand. But somehow, even in spite of that fear, and my almost instinctive desire to do whatever I can to rectify the potential rift I have created I find that I am rendered silent by the sudden nudge of the toe of Tara's shoe against my shin, my gaze lifting to meet hers, and allowing me leave to notice that she appears to be unphased by my remark, despite my fears to the contrary.

"Yes. And if you're half as smart as I think you are, you'll take that experience and do what you can to make sure it doesn't become your own."

No matter how fiercely I may have wished to deny it, I cannot help but admit to myself that Tara's advice is most likely far wiser than I could ever have known.

…

Roughly an hour later, I find myself hanging back after Tara leaves Wendy's room, a half-formed promise to find her in a few moments leaving my lips before I turn back, and regard my patient with an expression that I very much doubt even I would be able to decipher, were I to see my reflection in a mirror. For her part, Wendy meets my gaze with one that is equal parts defiant, and utterly spent, though I know without a doubt she will deny the latter until the day she dies. And although I am well aware that what I am about to do is far out of the realm of my job description, I find that I am shutting the door to the hallway beyond and turning to move back towards her bed, one brow lifting in silent inquiry as I glance down at the chair beside the bed, and realize she is almost immediately nodding her assent for me to sit down.

"You going to grill me again, now that the boss is gone?" She inquires, her words carrying far less of a bite to them than I'm sure she might have wished, though her eyes still flash defiantly, all the same, "Story hasn't changed."

"I'm not going to ask you about who slipped you the needle. Despite what it looks like, I'm not stupid enough to do that."

"Then what is it you want to know?"

"I want to know why you stayed."

"What are you talking about?"

"I believe that you do," I persist, shifting my position in the chair so that I am leaning forward with both elbows placed upon my knees, "I think you and I both know your relationship with Jax Teller was—frowned upon."

"No less than his relationship with your fancy doctor friend out there—"

"Except that I'm not asking about her. I want to talk about you," I state, aware of the surprised expression that flits across Wendy's features for the briefest of moments, before she manages to rearrange it into something more akin to the neutral mask of before, "Was that why you stayed? To spite them?"

"Why the hell do you care?"

"Because in my experience, understanding a patient's motives goes a hell of a long way in treating them. That, and anyone who has enough grit to go against someone like Gemma is someone that might just make it to sobriety."

"How the hell do you know Gemma?" Wendy inquires, her attempts at feigning disinterest falling to the wayside as she sits forward just a bit in her bed, her eyes now fixed upon my own as I reply.

"I met her when I was checking in on your son. She doesn't seem like the type of woman that's easy to impress."

"That's the understatement of the century."

"Any other woman would've run the other way after one look at how she can be around her family, I'd imagine," I elaborate, hoping that my own attempts at postulation over the exact nature of the woman in question might prompt Wendy to see me in a more understanding light, no matter how ridiculous that desire might seem in light of the fact that she knows me no more than the nurse who has just left the room after securing her IV line, "You didn't."

"Jax and I split up."

"And yet you're still here. You didn't leave town the first chance you got."

"If you think that makes me some brave heroine, you're wrong. What it makes me is dumb," Wendy argues, folding both arms across her chest, and picking idly at a bit of the medical tape that holds her IV close to her skin, "I wouldn't expect someone like you to understand."

"What does that mean? 'Someone like me'?"

"Have you taken a look in the mirror lately? You're like the poster girl for the perfect life."

Unable to resist, I succumb to the abrupt laughter that bubbles up in response to Wendy's assertion, my mind flicking back over the last few months of my supposedly perfect life in rapid succession as I simultaneously take the liberty of leaning back a bit in the chair while my patient watches as though convinced I have suddenly taken leave of my sanity. In all fairness, maybe I have. Maybe my sudden mirth is not the result of what the has said and how it contrasts so wonderfully with what I know to be the truth, but instead a harbinger of some sort of fracture of the mind that has only just revealed itself to the rest of the world. But before I can make heads or tails of that small quandary, I find that my pager is suddenly breaking the silence that has fallen between Wendy and myself, startling me out of my internal reverie, and prompting me to fish it from my pocket to glance at the text scrolling across the tiny screen.

"Is—is something wrong with Abel?"

"No. No, it's not about him at all," I assure her, rising from the chair, and turning to head towards the door, only to find myself pausing with my hand upon the knob so that I can glance back at her and correct her former assumption as best I can in the limited time that I have been given.

"And trust me, Wendy. I am the last person on this green earth that could be called perfect."

Whatever else she takes from our conversation; I can only hope that she remembers that.

…

"Do you think it worked?"

"What?"

"Your little talk with Wendy," Tara elaborates, abandoning her focus on the paperwork sitting before her on the small table in the office we share, and glancing at me with obvious curiosity in her eyes, "I have to admit, I have my doubts."

"Honestly? So do I," I admit, frowning as I scratch out a misspelled word in my own notes with the pen in my hand, and pausing in the act of jotting down anything more in favor of exhaling, and wetting my lips with the tip of my tongue before speaking once again, "I guess we'll have to wait and see to find out."

"What made you think of it in the first place?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean how did you come up with the idea, when it was pretty clear that every other approach had already failed?"

"I guess I just wanted to get her to realize she's gone up against the odds before, and come out the other side, even if it takes a while."

"A motivational thing?"

"Would it be so bad if it was?"

"I don't suppose it would be, no," Tara begins, surprising me with a faint half-smile, before reaching across the table, and swiping a fresh pen from the cup in front of me bearing the hospital's name, and insignia, "Though I suppose I have past history working against me, here."

"How do you mean?"

"I'm the girl who ran, remember?"

"You didn't run. You just—"

"I just what?"

"Made a better choice for yourself," I supply, aware of Tara's answering laugh, and choosing to ignore it in favor of pressing my case, "I was only trying to see if Wendy could find it in herself to do the same."

"For her sake, I hope she does. Though, I'd be lying if I said I didn't hope that her success coincided with her leaving Charming behind."

"Because of Jax?"

"Because of the whole lot of them," Tara clarifies, glancing down at the paperwork she has been working on so diligently until the start of our current conversation, a frown marring her brow as a precedent to her next words, "I meant what I said earlier, Ellen. They're—"

"Not people I want to get close to. I get it."

"And you know I'm only saying this because I don't want you getting pulled into the muck like I was?"

"I—of course."

"Do you?"

"I do," I confirm, forcing as much certainty in my voice as I can muster, in hopes that I can persuade Tara to see that I do truly understand where she is coming from. In spite of the intrigue that I feel over the men I have spoken to—even in the face of the fact that throughout the day I have not been entirely successful in keeping my mind from straying back to the stranger I met at the gym as well—I appreciate the gesture, knowing full well that it comes from a good place, and not one of judgment. But no matter that knowledge, or the guilt that comes with it as I find myself fighting against a strange sense of reluctance at the idea of deliberately staying away from people that I genuinely believe to be decent in thought, if not in proof, I force myself to seem willing, at least on the surface, a soft smile toying with my lips as I glance towards Tara and attempt to reassure her of my intentions, despite my own nagging misgivings.

"Trust me, Tara. I'm not going to go seeking these people out. But if I happen to encounter any of them in the course of doing my job—"

"I don't suppose I can blame you for that," My colleague remarks, sharing in the soft laugh that escapes before I find that my attention is once again diverted by the paperwork sprawled out before the both of us upon the desk, "You think we'll make it through all this before we get another page?"

"I wouldn't place any bets on that."

As if on cue, Tara's pager emits its shrill ring first, the sound only intensifying as it begins to vibrate against the top of the table. Mine follows suit not long after, of course, the combined sound causing us both to hastily shuffle the papers back into some semblance of order, before stowing them in the folios that we snagged from one of the upper floors. Within seconds, we are hurrying along the corridor, towards the most recent emergency, all thought of our former topic of discussion at least temporarily forgotten…

I suppose it is like they always say. No rest for the wicked.

…

By the time the shift is over, I am utterly and completely exhausted, barely able to tolerate the walk from the door of St. Thomas' to where Rex has the car idling at the curb. Although I will never admit it aloud without some serious persuasion, I am looking forward to seeing his wide smile. To feeling the weight of the arm he will invariably sling around my shoulder as he escorts me to the car, and stows me inside with the usual remarks about lack of sleep and how it has impacted my looks. But what I find, instead of all of that, is a man looking almost dejected as he leans against the passenger side door of his car, his arms folded across his chest as he lifts his head to meet my gaze head-on, and never even manages a grin.

"What is it?" I inquire, all thought of my own exhaustion forgotten as I hurry to close the distance between myself, and Rex, while he simultaneously moves away from the car to come toward me, "What happened? Is it—has someone found out about—"

"No. No, it isn't that, Rex assures, already sensing how my stomach must have doubled up in knots at the thought of our attempt at getting away from any repercussions coming our way as a result of my own insistence on doing the right thing in my former hometown, and doing what he can to waylay my anxiety with the touch of his hand upon my cheek, "It's nothing like that at all."

"Then why do you look so upset?"

"Who says I look upset?"

"I do. It's obvious enough that you'd agree with me if I gave you a mirror."

"Or maybe you just know me too well," Rex retorts, tempering the potential blow of his words with a slight rub of the pad of his thumb against my cheek, before he is pulling away, and turning to open the passenger side door, "I need to go back home for a bit. To what was home, I mean."

"What?"

"It's only for a week. Two at the most."

"So something did happen," I surmise, still standing on the curb, despite how the dinging of the alarm that indicates a door remains open seems loud enough to direct any and all passersby to bring their attention to us, "What is it. You can tell me, you know that—"

"It's nothing like that either, Ellen."

"Why don't I believe you?"

"Because you worry too much. Always have, always will," Rex says, clambering into the driver's seat of the car, and shutting the door behind him so that I am forced to do the same on my side of the vehicle, or risk abandoning our conversation altogether.

"Then why do you have to leave?"

"To keep up appearances."

"Then let me come with you."

"I can't do that, and you know it. I'm not bringing you back there, when we don't know that doing so wouldn't be playing right into their hands."

"Isn't that exactly what you're doing?" I persist, grateful for the fact that Rex's attention is, at least for the moment, diverted by the task of merging into traffic, so that he cannot see evidence of tears that have made themselves known by the slight sting arising at the backs of my eyes in time with the cracking of my voice, "If you go there alone—"

"I think I can take care of myself, you know."

"That doesn't mean you might not need back-up."

"And the day I start depending on you for that is the day I've failed at my job," Rex states, risking a glance my way, and almost immediately frowning as he sees in my expression alone that I have taken his words the wrong way, "I'm not putting you in danger. Not if I have any choice in the matter."

"What about my choice?"

"Rae—"

"No. What about my choice?" I cut in, my fingernails digging into the leather of my seat in hopes that the distraction will allow me to press my case more effectively, "If you get to go running off on a vigilante mission, why the hell can't I do the same?"

"First off, it's not a vigilante mission."

"I didn't think we were here to argue semantics, Rex."

"And secondly, I'm not running off anywhere," He adds, abandoning his hold on the steering wheel with one hand so that he can reach for my own, and give it a small squeeze before going on, "I'm going back to attempt to tie up loose ends, and then I'm done."

"You're certain?"

"Absolutely. Have I ever lied to you before?"

I want to remain stubbornly silent in the wake of his reply, as cold and indifferent as the childish side of me wants to be, no matter the obvious lack of wisdom in such a thing as a whole. But something in the earnestness of his tone, and the return of the gentle pressure his hand exerts upon my own forbids me from doing exactly that, a small sigh escaping as I slump back against the car seat, and glance at our hands before I speak.

"No. You haven't."

"Well then," Rex begins, sending me what passes for a grin, before relinquishing his hold on my hand in favor of placing it back upon the steering wheel once more, "Now seems like a bad time to start, doesn't it?"

"Yes," I agree, forcing a smile of my own, before turning my attention to the road as well, and trying to avoid how the drops from the sudden rainstorm has caused tiny tracks to roam across the windshield like the unwiped markings of so many tears.

"Now seems like a bad time to start."

…


	11. The Invitation

Returning home after dropping Rex off at the airport is a far lonelier task than I might have anticipated, the utter silence that seems to fill up the house very near to suffocating despite my attempts to relieve it with the idle chatter on the television, and the sound of my own rummages through the kitchen in search of something to eat. In the end, I only manage to eat about a quarter of the small sandwich I prepared, before I am abandoning the rest and heading out to the back patio in hopes that the air will somehow become easier to breathe.

Of course, I know almost as soon as I step outdoors that my efforts will be futile.

Regardless of that very fact, however, I find that I am bound and determined to attempt to do something productive to ward off the melancholy that seems determined to preoccupy me with its presence, and soon I find that I am on my knees at the edge of the patio, picking at the weeds that have cropped up between the stones. Given the state of unease that seems to have crept up on me in the wake of Rex's absence, I almost relish the mind-numbing repetitive nature of the work at hand, even when my movements are punctuated by the occasional twinge of pain inherent in breaking a nail on the concrete blocks beneath me. Before I know it, I have half of the patio clean and free of weeds, though I am oblivious to the result of my efforts for the time-being.

Or at least, I am until the sound of footsteps rustling in the grass of the yard startles me back into some semblance of awareness, and I find myself staring wide-eyed at my neighbor and newfound friend while my heart pounds away erratically in my chest.

"You really shouldn't leave the front door open and unlocked, you know," Opie says, his mouth curving upwards in a half-smile in spite of the apparent concern that I can see etched upon his features, "Anyone could walk in and interrupt you."

"I'll keep that in mind. Though, you seem to have come through the side-yard—"

"Didn't want to just barge in. But I figured if you weren't coming to the door you might be back here."

"I didn't realize I was that predictable," I reply, brushing stray bits of dirt and greenery away from my pant legs as I stand, and frowning a bit as the act reminds me of the broken nail I have gained as it bumps against the fabric covering my leg and begins to throb dully in response, "Is everything—okay? With Donna and the kids?"

"Yeah. Yeah, they're fine. They're not why I'm here," Opie informs, aware of my puzzled expression, and doing what he can to suppress a laugh as a result, "I was just checking in since you're on your own for a bit."

"Rex—told you?"

"Are you really that surprised that he did?"

"I suppose not," I admit, my brow furrowed as I try to retrace my steps back to my return from the airport and my actions thereafter, practically hearing Rex chastising my inattention over leaving the door open the entire time, "I assume he gave you specific instructions?"

"A list of them. And he told me you wouldn't listen to half of what he told me to tell you anyway."

"He knows me well."

"He also seemed to think you might need a ride to work every now and then," Opie adds, following me as I gesture for him to step inside the house, though he does stay in the den while I opt for venturing into the kitchen to get us both a glass of water, my teeth chewing at the inside of my cheek as I try my best to avoid letting the mild frustration I feel over Rex's apparent edict of an honor guard to follow me to and from work show upon my features.

"He left me his car—"

"I don't think he ever meant for you to drive it in, alone."

"You can hardly stay with me every minute of every day, Opie. You have a life too. A family," I protest, taking both glasses of water back to the den, and handing one to my apparent guest as he simultaneously stoops to sit on the edge of the sofa, "I can't ask you to do this."

"Then I guess it's a good thing you're not the one that did the asking in the first place."

Unable to do anything other than sigh in light of my resignation over hearing such a thing, I opt for taking a small sip from the glass of water clutched tightly in my hand, my gaze drifting to the table that now rests between Opie and I as though it is the most fascinating thing in the world. Though I appreciate his willingness to help more than I could ever put into words, a part of me still hates the idea of being watched over as though I am completely incapable of being safe on my own.

Even though I know, on some level, that it's true, that does not make the reality any easier to stomach when pride gets in the way as it always does, and forces us to do and say things that we might not ever think of otherwise.

"What if I told you I didn't want you to do this?"

"Wouldn't be the first time I didn't listen to a woman. Just ask Donna," Opie states, laughing a bit at my obviously startled expression, and leaning forward so that he can place both elbows upon his knees before going on, "I'm committed, Ellen. You might as well accept it."

"Opie—"

"He told me what happened at Lumpy's, too."

"He—he did?" I stammer, my eyes snapping up to meet Opie's in spite of my reluctance, and consequently giving me leave to realize that I truly ought to have known Rex would do this all along, "So you know about—"

"About what went down with Tig? Yes."

"Tig—"

"The man with Chibs and Half-Sack."

"Oh."

"I don't think the man's ever had a woman talk to him like that in his life."

"I was trying to diffuse the situation," I interject, aware of Opie's incredulous expression, and yet I find that I am somehow determined to press my case, regardless, "Did Rex tell you what he did, too?"

"Yeah. Yeah, he did," Opie states, chuckling a bit at the memory, and running a finger across a bit of condensation that has formed upon the glass of water he holds for a moment before going on, "I don't think either of you achieved the end result you hoped for."

"Is that what this is all about? The risk of retribution?"

"I wasn't given any specifics. Rex only asked that I make sure you didn't get into any trouble while he was away."

"Do you really think anything would happen?" I inquire, placing now half-empty water glass upon the table, and moving to sit opposite Opie on the sofa while simultaneously watching his reaction as carefully as I can, "You know these guys better than anyone."

"How do you figure?"

"I—your son was sketching a picture of one of your tattoos when I went to lunch with Donna the other day."

"The reaper."

"That would be the one, yes."

"I'm not—I don't run with them anymore," Opie informs, something in his tone showing hesitation at such a statement, though his expression remains absolutely determined to prove that he is no longer a part of something I know I can never fully understand, "But I did know them."

"And would they hurt a woman? Just for defending her friend?"

"Never intentionally, no."

"Then why—"

"Because I think Rex knows you well enough to realize that you wouldn't necessarily shy away from another encounter, even if that was the smart decision."

"So he thinks I would deliberately bait this guy?" I exclaim, astounded at the implication, though given past history I have to admit that I cannot truly fault Rex for the supposition, no matter how much it might hurt, "I'm not—am I really that bad?"

"I don't think it's a matter of 'bad', Ellen. I think it's a matter of this guy being very concerned for your well-being."

In the wake of such an assertion, I find that I am rendered speechless, despite wanting to come up with some manner of reply to persuade Opie that whatever Rex's concerns may have been, they are not truly warranted. Not for the first time, I am near to overwhelmed with the prospect of exactly how far Rex seems willing to go to see that I am safe, no matter the disruption that might be given to his own life as a result. And before I am fully aware of it, I find that the slight stinging that has started to bother my eyes has permitted a single tear to make its way down my cheek, my skin flushing as I realize Opie has seen that small evidence of weakness before I had the chance to dash it away.

"Shit—I—I'm sorry," I begin, forcing myself to my feet, and wiping at the offending tear with the hand that is not reaching for my water glass to take it back to the kitchen in hopes that I can gather my thoughts before I fall apart completely. Something in the way Opie is watching me, as though he might actually think to feel pity for my situation if given half the chance, stings, almost as much as the unshed tears that cloud my vision while I simultaneously try as best I can to blink them all away. And although I truly wish I could make that look go away, I find that I am resigning myself to accept that I cannot, a soft sigh escaping as I fiddle with the glass and get it settled in the sink before turning back towards Opie to attempt to speak again.

"I'm not usually this much of a wreck, you know."

"Trust me, Ellen. I know."

"And you're not going to let me convince you that this really isn't necessary?"

"Nope," Opie confirms, sending me a smile as he rises to stand, himself, and moves towards me to hand me the glass he had been using before going on, "Something tells me I'd be in for an ass-kicking if I did."

"Are you saying Rex scares you?" I inquire, my embarrassment over my tears forgotten, at least for the moment, in favor of the small half-smile that tugs at the corner of my mouth while I wait for Opie's reply.

"Let's just say I know the look a man gets when he's prepared to kill to keep someone safe," He begins, startling me with the obvious vehemence in his tone, though I resist the almost automatic urge I feel to say something to dissuade him from speaking any further.

"And that is the exact look I see on Rex's face every single damned time he looks at you, Ellen. That's not something I want to fight."

Whether I want to admit it or not, I am beginning to realize that perhaps I might have underestimated Rex's determination, inasmuch as I also seem to have remained oblivious to exactly what he seems willing to do to avoid a repetition of what drove me from my home in the first place…

…

I suppose I should not be surprised that Opie's visit is followed by an invitation to dinner with him, Donna, and the kids, my eagerness to accept likely serving as the impetus behind my current position wheeling a grocery cart while Donna and I peruse the aisles of the local food market for ideas on what to prepare for our meal. So far, we seem to have settled upon homemade lasagna, wine, and garlic bread, with the dessert being the only thing remaining for us to decide on—

And that particular need for a decision is what has us standing in the frozen aisle of the market, staring at the vast array of ice cream and frozen pies as though one of them will jump out at us if given the proper motivation.

"Chocolate silk could work," Donna suggests, folding both arms over her chest, and regarding the display before her with a skeptically raised brow, "But Opie prefers coconut cream."

"We could do both."

"I've never been above saying 'screw it' to the waist line."

"Neither have I," I reply, sending my companion a smile, and risking a step closer to the giant, wall-length freezer occupying the back aisle of the store so that I can get a better look at the products therein, "Will the kids eat that, or do they prefer ice cream?"

"Are you actually asking for the kids, or do you want ice cream, too?"

"I'm not going to answer that."

The laugh that Donna and I share in response to my statement is genuine, despite my lingering misgivings regarding being left behind while Rex goes off to do—whatever it is he had to do. I would be a liar if I were to pretend that it did not bother me, being kept in the dark about why he had to leave so suddenly, and what he would be doing while he was away. But something about the act of simply standing here, debating what to buy for dessert seems to shield me from that trouble, even if only for a little while, and I am not willing to allow my internal musings to prevent me from partaking in the moment at hand.

"Go ahead and get the ice cream, too," Donna tells me, her amusement apparent despite the fact that she is too preoccupied grabbing the aforementioned pie to look my way and see it for herself, "The kids will love you for it."

"Vanilla or chocolate?"

"Vanilla. We'll swing by the baking aisle again for the sprinkles and chocolate syrup."

"Good choice," I admit, plucking a carton of vanilla ice cream from the freezer, and depositing it in the cart before moving to follow after Donna as she heads to the end of the aisle once again, "Want me to run and get the sprinkles and syrup so you can get in line? They look a little busy."

"Oh—sure. If—if you don't mind."

"I won't as long as you don't leave me here."

"Wouldn't dream of it."

With that sort of assurance in mind, I venture off on my own while Donna secures our place in line, weaving in and out of the other people milling about in the aisles as best I can now that I have been liberated of the extra encumbrance of the cart. Despite the mid-afternoon crowds, I find I am able to locate the items I need with relative ease, and head back towards the checkout lanes before Donna will have made it to the front, herself. Or at least I think that is how quickly I am returning, only to find that my shopping companion is nowhere to be found.

Curious…

Brow furrowed, I double check the other open lanes to ensure that she hasn't just chosen a different one, a frown tugging at my lips as I realize that such a simple solution is not likely to hold up no matter how much I might want it to. For a moment, I am torn between going back to the aisles to see if perhaps she simply forgot something, versus venturing outside, instead. But before I get the chance I find that I am startled back into some semblance of awareness by the sound of a cashier's voice coming from somewhere to my left, forcing me to redirect my attention towards the person speaking while the chocolate syrup and sprinkles remain clutched tightly in my hands.

"Your friend went outside," He says, his expression unreadable as he fiddles with one of the plastic bags hanging on the turn-style at the end of the lane, before glancing my way once again, "Couldn't pay for the groceries."

"I—okay," I stammer, my gaze dropping to the items in my hands for just a moment before I am clearing my throat and glancing back at the cashier before going on, "I can take care of it."

"No need. Someone else already did."

"They did."

"Yep. Gave me the change so that she could cover whatever you brought up here, too," The cashier explains, his expression indicating that what just happened is clearly as natural as the sun rising in the east, and setting in the west. Personally, I appear to be stuck on the fact that Donna clearly preferred dropping her intended purchases and leaving the store, rather than simply allowing me to pick up the tab, though on some level I can recognize the need for pride to step in and prevent the potential embarrassment of a friend discovering something that she would rather keep hidden. But before I can fully come to terms with my own confusion, I find that the cashier is reaching to take the syrup and sprinkles from my waiting hands, the steady beep of the scanner causing me to flinch before I finally begin the attempt at regaining some level of composure.

As if that could happen when my mind seems to be spinning at a hundred miles a minute, such that I can hardly even summon the fortitude to manage a smile as the man hands me the bag with the receipt tucked inside.

"You're good to go."

"Thank—thank you."

"Any time."

Bag in hand, I hurry to the front of the store, and exit the front doors into the blinding sunlight, one hand lifting to shield my eyes as I scan the lot for any sign of Donna. I don't truly believe she would have left the store completely, though that does not stop the small bolt of dread from welling up inside my chest, regardless. But almost as soon as I have contemplated digging my phone from my purse, I spot Donna standing by her vehicle where it rests parked against the curb, now, a familiar figure standing beside her despite how I can tell just from Donna's expression that her presence is far from welcome.

"Look, I know what you went through. Been there. With two husbands," Gemma states, one hand perched upon her hip as she leans against Donna's car as though she has a right to it simply because of who she is, "Lose your man—kids lose their dad—you get pissed off. Want to blame the club. But SAMCRO isn't the enemy. It's the glue. The one thing that's there to pull you through the ugly shit. Gotta stop fighting us, Donna. You need us."

"I married Opie. I didn't marry the club. You have no idea what I need."

"We're having a little family dinner tonight. You and Ope should come. Bring the kids. You might actually have a good time."

"Actually, she already has dinner plans," I interject, coming to stand beside Gemma, and doing what I can to resist the urge to quail beneath the obvious skepticism in her gaze as it comes to rest upon me, and me alone, "With—with me."

"Oh. Well far be it for me to ruin what's bound to be a fascinating evening."

"You don't sound like you're convinced."

"That's because I'm not," Gemma begins, cocking her head to the side as though she thinks that by doing so it will give her a better vantage point for picking out the weak spots in my character, "Didn't know you two were friends."

"Neighbors, actually—"

"How sweet. And you just—hit it off? Just like that?"

"What difference does that make to you?"

"I'm just curious, sweetheart. No need to break out the claws."

"I'm not breaking out anything," I retort, aware of the way that Gemma is looking at me as though simultaneously intrigued and repulsed by my sudden show of defiance, and yet choosing to ignore it in favor of continuing before I lose my nerve entirely, "I just asked a simple question."

"So did I."

"I wonder which one of us will get an answer first."

For a moment, Gemma does not seem to have a reply to my assertion, one of her perfectly sculpted brows lifting in silent recognition of my apparent decision to throw caution to the wind in favor of brash replies. But before I can become too comfortable in the wake of her silence, I realize her arms have come to cross over her chest, a slight huff of exasperation breaking the silence between us before she speaks once again.

"Tell you what. You should join us for dinner tonight, too. Bring whatever the hell it is you were going to make already. Not like it won't get eaten."

"I'm not sure that's a good idea," I object, glancing once at Donna, and registering in the space of just a few seconds that she is wholeheartedly in agreement with me on that particular matter despite the fact that she has not said a word to indicate such a thing, herself, "I don't—you don't know me."

"You're one of the doctors treating my grandson. I think that gives us the right to know you, sweetheart."

I cannot explain what it is about the tone to her voice, and the determination behind the statement that has me shivering, even in spite of my fierce desire to avoid any sort of show of weakness in front of this woman who seems to take such delight in exploiting it in anyone that she can. But regardless of my apparent unwillingness to take her up on her offer without any sort of hesitation at all I find that I am suddenly speechless, the satisfaction that steals over Gemma's features in response doing far more to seal my fate than any words ever could.

"The two of you don't need to say anything else. My Martha Stewart's wearing real thin," Gemma states, fixing both Donna and I with a look that all but locks us in silence before she is turning back to head towards the store, her heels clicking faintly on the pavement beneath her feet.

"See you both later on. Feel free to bring a dish to pass."

And just like that, Donna and I were invited into the snake pit…

…


	12. Dinner Party

"This is insane, right? It's actually, certifiably insane."

"You really don't have to go, you know. We could just say that—"

"That what? You, Opie, the kids, and I all came down with the flu?"

"That's one option," Donna acknowledges, perching on the edge of my bed while I rifle through my closet as though the act will give me the courage I need to go through with what this night will undoubtedly entail, "You don't have to come with me, you know."

"Hell yes I do," I protest, turning from my closet and regarding my friend with an expression that likely shows far more determination than I might be feeling mere hours from now, at dinner, "I'm not leaving you alone to deal with that."

"Still, it might be better if you steer clear of it all. I—you have no reason to end up tangled up with these people just because you want to help me."

"And what if I'm going to get myself 'tangled', as you put it, anyway, because I refuse to see a friend get thrown under the bus?"

"I would say that you are every bit as stubborn as Rex said you were. Maybe more."

Exhaling as I turn back towards the closet, and doing what I can to avoid allowing my shoulders to slump as a pang of longing snaps through me as a result of how fiercely I miss that man, no matter how much his protectiveness can chafe at me, or how short a time he has truly been gone, I force myself to divert my attention to the task of finding something to wear once again in hopes that the task will distract me enough to quell my rising nerves. It would have been a lie for me to pretend that Donna's offer to bail on this dinner was not appealing, no matter how much I might wish that it was not. But although I am all but terrified at the prospect of encountering Gemma again, and willingly to boot, I am not about to leave Donna alone to suffer the same fate.

It was obvious to me almost as soon as I had walked up on the two of them in the grocery store parking lot that there was no love lost between them, and I'd be damned if I allowed a friend to be forced to go alone into a situation she was uncomfortable with if I could do anything to avoid it.

"Are you sure you want to do this? I mean—really sure?" Donna persists, the soft squeak of the bed hinges indicating she had risen to stand so that she could join me in perusing the closet, herself, "Because once you're in with these people it can be really hard to get out."

"I'm not afraid," I assure her, forcing a smile to my lips in spite of the fact that I am fairly certain both Donna and I know that my words are not exactly truthful, "You may as well stop trying to dissuade me, Donna. I'm committed."

"Committed to a mental institution?"

"Maybe so."

"Mind if I join you? From where I'm standing, a padded cell sounds pretty good right about now."

"I wouldn't have it any other way."

It would have been a lie to pretend that I was not pleased at the fact that my remark has Donna laughing—really laughing, despite the fact that I know she is more than a little apprehensive over our current predicament. And although I am nowhere near certain that going forward with this is wise, I find that I am still able to acknowledge the feeling of relief that I have over the fact that I am not going to be doing this alone…

No matter what may happen tonight, the reassurance that is inherent in having some degree of backup through Donna's presence alone is worth far more than she can ever know.

…

As Opie pulls the car into the drive of Gemma's home, I find that I am struck speechless by its appearance, and the fact that I had quite honestly expected it to be quite different than what it really is. In my mind, the picture of a biker's home was something far less—normal—than the home that spreads out before us. It is almost beautiful, in its own way, though that realization does absolutely nothing to quell my nerves when faced with the cars and motorcycles already parked along the curb before the front lawn. And although I would personally like nothing more than to find some reason to turn away and head back home, I force myself to stand rooted to the spot until Donna comes to stand at my side, the look that we share nothing sort of apprehensive before we both take a step towards the drive.

"Here goes nothing, right?"

"Something like that," I agree, falling into step beside her, while the kids dart around us to join the others that appear to already be playing on the lawn. A soft echo of whatever music is playing indoors is wafting out from the partially opened doorway, and the kitchen window as well—something that really ought to have provided reassurance, even though it did nothing of the sort. In truth, I still have no idea what I'm doing here, though I can already imagine the sort of lecture my presence may entail from Rex if and when he ever finds out. But before I can seize what is likely the last chance I will have to get out of this, we are at the front door, and I am following after Opie and Donna as they head inside.

"Wow—you actually came," Gemma calls, her expression mildly intrigued as she steps into the den, while wiping her hands on a towel, "I have to admit, I'm surprised."

"Pleasantly, I hope," I reply, managing a tight smile in an effort to appear as though my main intention is not to taunt the hostess, "I've never been one to turn down a free meal."

"Good to know. And you brought the family, too. How sweet."

"I don't turn down free meals, either," Opie states, giving me a slight nudge as he comes to stand beside me, likely to provide reassurance without seeming too obvious about it, and simultaneously looping an arm around Donna's shoulders as well, "The kids are outside."

"Well it's good to have the whole crew back together again. Maybe the girls can help out in the kitchen?"

"We'd love to," I agree, shaking my head slightly in response to Donna's incredulous expression to forestall her making any attempt at a protest, and allowing my gaze to drift back to the reason for my desire to get out of the den as quickly as I can. For the moment, he doesn't appear to have noticed me, though I am certain that fact will change if I persist in standing here, staring. And inasmuch as some small, foolish part of me might be slightly intrigued as to what exactly may happen if that reality does transpire, I force myself to follow after my friend and neighbor into the kitchen as instructed, and redirect my attention to Gemma as she begins to speak once again.

"Think the two of you can handle pasta salad?"

"I know we can."

"Then get to it, doc. We ain't got all night."

Suppressing an exasperated huff by the skin of my teeth, I settle instead for simply moving over towards the countertop, a faint smile crossing my features as one of the women already at work preparing food looks up and extends a hand to introduce herself to both Donna and I before we begin.

"Hey. Name's Emily."

"Ellen."

"Nice to meet you, Ellen," Emily enthuses, the small squeeze her hand gives my own seeming to be genuine, though the expression Donna wears as the blonde reaches out to show her the same courtesy appears to indicate otherwise, "Donna. Good to see you again."

"Thanks."

"Gemma keeps the tomatoes in the crisper drawer, and there's some olives left over from prepping pizza on the counter by the sink."

"And the noodles?" I inquire, my eyes following after Donna for a moment as she heads towards the refrigerator, before my attention is drawn back to Emily as she hands me a knife from the drawer to her left before she replies.

"Already boiling on the stove."

"Then I guess I have my marching orders."

"I guess you do," Emily confirms, chuckling a bit as she follows me over towards the stove, though I can tell she is more intent on watching Donna carry the tomatoes back to the counter to begin dicing them and setting them in a bowl, "You ah—you here with somebody?"

"With Donna and Opie, yeah."

"No. I mean are you with somebody?"

"I'm afraid I don't really know what you mean," I begin, turning my attention to the task of stirring the pasta so that it will not boil over, while my teeth worry a bit at my lower lip as I register Emily's almost immediate answer to my attempt at evasion.

"I mean are you with one of the guys?" She persists, her expression and her tone indicating nothing but a simple curiosity, though I am not blind enough to miss the fact that her eyes have narrowed just a bit as though she is truly suspicious of my motives for being here. In truth, I am not entirely certain why it would matter to her one way or another, but of course I am not quite foolish enough to tell this woman that to her face. But regardless of my curiosity over why my relationship with one of 'the guys', as she so eloquently put it, might mean to her, I force myself to answer as neutrally as I can.

"No. I don't—I barely know them. I'm just—"

"She's my neighbor," Donna interjects, glancing back over her shoulder in the midst of dicing tomatoes, and sending me a faint smile before returning her attention to the task at hand, "Gemma rooked her into this when we bumped into each other at the grocery store."

"That sounds like Gemma."

"Yeah, she was kind of—hard to resist," I explain, seizing onto Donna's newfound topic of conversation, no matter how inadvertent it may have been in reality, and glancing up from the boiling noodles to glance at Emily before going on, "She always like that?"

"Sweetheart, you have no idea."

Wincing as the now-familiar voice reaches my ears, I do what I can to force myself to turn towards it as though nothing is amiss, one brow quirked in silent inquiry as I regard the woman who so easily took it upon herself to essentially drag Donna and I here in the first place with a look that I hope is as unreadable as her own.

"I take it you heard all of that."

"My ears may have been burning," Gemma confirms, one corner of her mouth turning up in a half-smile as she leans against the door frame with her arms folded across her chest, "How're the noodles coming along?"

"Almost done."

"And your thoughts?"

"What about my thoughts?" I ask, this time unable to entirely keep the skepticism from my tone as I turn down the burner, and begin to lift the pot of noodles away from the stove.

"I'm sure you've got some by now about us—I'd like to know what they are."

"What makes you so sure that I do?"

"You and Doctor Perfect have become two peas in a pod. I'm just curious if you've taken on some of her opinions about my family as your own," Gemma asserts, watching me as though the act of pouring noodles and boiling water into a strainer has suddenly become the most fascinating task in the world, "Think of it as me watching out for my own."

"And you think I'm a threat."

"That's what I'm trying to figure out."

"I'm nothing," I begin, something in the way the older woman is looking at me indicating that I am on thin ice already, despite the fact that I have not done anything to warrant it as of now, "I'm just Donna's neighbor, and one of the doctors taking care of your grandson. And you already know that."

"You're also someone that has made a point of antagonizing someone that you'd have been better off leaving alone."

"And who might that be?"

"Ernest Darby. Does that name ring a bell?"

"How the hell do you know about that?"

"I know about almost everything that happens in this town," Gemma explains, moving away from the door frame, and coming to stand at my side while I rinse the noodles with some cold water from the faucet before turning to carry the strainer over to the counter, and the glass bowl that is waiting there, "That's something you might want to consider before you get too cocky about where you stand in all this."

"I'm not cocky."

"Then why'd you bump into Darby?"

"That was an accident. And believe me, it's not one I'm looking to repeat," I say, placing the now-empty strainer on the counter, and turning to face Gemma directly in the hopes that a false show of confidence will get her to back down, "And after tonight, you don't have to worry about seeing me again, unless it's at the hospital."

"You sure about that, sweetheart?"

"Positive."

"Good. I'll let you get back to work then," Gemma promises, sending me one last smile before she is turning on a heel and heading back towards the door that leads out into the den, "Oh, and doc?"

"Yeah."

"Make sure you put enough tomatoes in the pasta salad. Our boys like it better that way."

"Will do," I reply, turning my attention back to the countertop just as Donna returns to my side, to dump the tomatoes into the bowl along with the noodles, "Thanks for the heads up."

"Any time."

Though I don't realize it right away, I end up holding my breath until Gemma has successfully left the room, my shoulders slumping in what I can only describe as relief while I glance at Donna, and attempt a smile. I can tell just by looking at her that she is every bit as ill at ease as I am, though she, like me, is trying her best to hide that fact as best she can. And half in an effort to reassure her, I bump my shoulder casually against her own, a resigned sigh escaping before I find the wherewithal to speak.

"Looks like we dodged a bullet."

"For now."

"Yeah," I amend, a slight frown marring my brow as I set to work stirring the tomatoes and noodles together while Donna turns back to retrieve the can of olives beside the sink, "For now."

Somehow, I highly doubted Gemma was just going to let this little encounter go, no matter how much I may wish to think the opposite…

…

With the pasta salad successfully prepared, and Donna temporarily missing in action since she decided to go find the kids and get them cleaned up for dinner, I find myself leaning against the wall in an out of the way corner of the den, nursing the beer that Emily had given me not long after Gemma's departure while I make an attempt at watching the people gathered on the sofa, and standing at odd intervals around the room in turn. Emily herself seems to have contented herself with chatting idly with a man that is sporting a mohawk, and tribal tattoos on his scalp—but before I can get too distracted by the potential meaning behind such a style I am distracted by a slight shadow falling across my line of vision, forcing me to glance at the shadow's source, and consequently nearly causing me to choke on some of my beer.

"Hey, doll. You alright?"

"I—yeah. Yeah, I'm fine," I stammer, shifting in an attempt to provide some distance between myself and my newfound companion, though the effort is thwarted almost as soon as I make it, as he mirrors my step away with a move closer to me.

"Because you seem kind of lonely—"

"Trust me, I'm not lonely."

"Could've fooled me," My companion persists, coming to lean against the wall beside me, and failing to completely suppress his smirk as I flinch when his shoulder brushes against mine, "You don't look like a girl who's having a good time."

"Why is that?"

"That was something I was hoping you would tell me."

"I don't make a habit of sharing my secrets with strangers," I tell him, unsure of exactly why the remark comes across as so coquettish, when I really was just going for a simple denial, "Sorry."

"Are we strangers? I seem to recall seeing you around, before."

"I think you and I both know that encounter doesn't count."

"Do we, though? Because I thought we had a lot of fun," Tig counters, turning just a bit so that he is standing even closer to me than he was, before, "Did you not have fun?"

"Considering the fact that you were more than ready to hurt a friend of mine, no. I really didn't have fun."

"Shame. I thought we really had something, there."

"And what would you do if I told you we did?" I muse, taking another sip of my beer if for no other reason than to steady my nerves while I wait for Tig to reply. I know that what I am doing is ridiculously foolish. That I would be far better served by simply walking away, and giving him nothing more than some half-hearted excuse for my departure. But in spite of that knowledge, I find that I am all but rooted to the wall beside him, doing my best to remain discreet while I allow my gaze to drift across his features for a moment while he speaks.

"I'd ask if you wanted to do it again."

Unbidden, a laugh escapes despite my belated effort to avoid it, my amusement ever so obviously at odds with my apprehension over being in such close proximity to a man who, by rights, I should be ignoring completely. It is apparent that such a thing has pleased my companion, if the slightest hint of a mischievous grin playing about his features is any indication. And no matter how fervently I may try to deny it, that grin only serves to further cloud my apparently already questionable judgment, a slight flush burning on my cheeks as I avert my gaze for a moment, before I reply.

"Wow. You certainly don't pull any punches, do you?"

"Not my style, doll."

"What is your—style?"

"You sure you really wanna know?"

Something in the way Tig is looking at me has me half-tempted to say yes, in spite of how I know that to do so would only encourage him in his current line of behavior. But before I even have the chance to open my mouth, regardless of how idiotic I know the gesture would be, I find that I am spared the trouble by the appearance of another familiar face—this one belonging to a biker I am far more comfortable socializing with than the man who currently stands beside me.

"Tormenting our new friend already, Tiggy?" Chibs begins, sending me what I can only interpret as a reassuring smile, before turning to face Tig directly, with one brow lifted in obvious question of the man's motives, "Thought you might've learned your lesson wi' her friend at the gym."

"I don't see her 'friend' here—"

"That don't mean ya get to accost her anyway."

"He—I wouldn't call this accosting me, exactly," I tell him, my brow furrowing in consternation as I realize I am actually defending a man that good sense says I should stay away from if I know what's good for me, though that realization does not appear to be enough to dissuade me from my cause, "We were just—talking."

"Oh, aye, an' I'm the Pillsbury Doughboy."

"You've got the gut for it, Chibby."

"Arsehole."

"Hey, just callin' it like I see it," Tig responds, risking another glance at me, and winking when he realizes that I appear to be grinning at the banter between him and Chibs despite how I have not consciously made the decision to do so, "But she's right. We were just talkin'."

"Think maybe the two o' you could continue your 'talkin' at the table? Gemma says dinner's ready."

"What do ya say, doll? Dinner?"

"Sure," I agree, downing the rest of my beer, and depositing the bottle on a nearby table before following after Chibs, while Tig takes the liberty of my assent to place a hand against the small of my back as he moves along beside me. The gesture provokes a shiver to trace its way down my spine, no matter how much I may wish that it does not. And although I am well aware of both Donna's and Opie's utterly astounded expression when I walk in to the dining room behind Chibs, I cannot entirely persuade myself to fully regret my current set of circumstances…

Whether it is wise or not, I am far more than a little intrigued by Tig, even in light of our first interaction at Lumpy's gym, and as such, I can hardly find the prospect of spending the evening at his side a daunting one.

…


	13. Concealed Truths

The remainder of the evening seems to pass without incident, at least as far as it pertains to drama, the surprisingly good-natured cast of the dinner table conversation stunning me, to say the least, in spite of my desire to keep an open mind. To be honest, I hadn't expected a gathering of bikers to be so jovial, particularly in light of what little I had already seen involving their day to day lives. But jovial it most certainly was, even in spite of my lingering misgivings, and I was surprised to find that more often than not, I was participating in the laughter and banter myself, as least inasmuch as it related to conversation with Chibs, and the enigmatic blue-eyed biker seated on my opposite side.

"So—you know Ope and Donna," He states, pausing just long enough to take another swig of beer before leaning back against his chair, and placing an arm on the back of my own as though it belongs there while waiting for my reply.

"Yeah. We're—neighbors."

"For how long?"

"Does it really matter?"

"Nah. I guess it really doesn't."

"Good," I quip, my fingertips fiddling at the edge of the napkin I have placed in my lap, though I do what I can to persuade myself to continue meeting my companion's gaze, head-on, "Because I wasn't going to tell you even if it did."

"You the secretive type, then?" Tig inquires, blue eyes regarding me carefully, though even I can see that amusement seems to win out over any form of suspicion he may have regarding my semi-elusive reply.

"If by secretive, you mean the type that appreciates the value of determining when and where to reveal certain pieces of information, then yes. I suppose I am."

"I can respect that."

"Good. I'd hate to think your opinion of me could fly down the drain so easily," I begin, one corner of my mouth turning up into a half-smile, despite the uncertainty I am feeling beneath the weight of the man's rather intent gaze. In truth, I am not entirely sure why his observation seems to unnerve me so effectively, though I do what I can to push the questions brought about by that very fact to the side, at least for the time-being.

For now, at least, I know I would be far better served by remaining firmly rooted in the present, particularly if I have any hope of maintaining the façade of easy confidence that I know will be key in not losing my nerve and running from this entire affair in two seconds, flat.

"My good opinion isn't that fickle, doll. You'd have to do something real messed up to lose it once ya had it."

"And do I?"

"Do you what?"

"Do I have your good opinion?" I ask him, surprising myself with how easily I ask the question, when the sudden sensation of Tig's fingertips grazing against my shoulder has me shivering almost immediately in response. He has to have picked up on that, though mercifully, he does nothing to indicate that fact, at least for the moment. But regardless of whether I can fully reconcile the feel of his fingertips tracing their way from my shoulder, up to the bare skin of my neck, with the fact that I know I really should be pulling away, instead of leaning into the touch of his hand, as I am, now, I find that I am powerless to do anything other than remain exactly where I am, my heart racing at a hundred miles a minute while I wait for his reply.

"Somethin' tells me you already know the answer to that question."

Whether I truly want to admit it or not, I know damn well that he is right. I do know the answer to my own question, and if the smirk that has taken over Tig's features is any indication, he has read that realization as it dawns across my face as easily as if I had confirmed it out loud…

…

"So—you were pretty cozy with Tig, earlier," Donna says, casting a glance towards the door that leads from my back patio, to the den, to ensure that Opie still has the kids firmly ensconced on the sofa watching a movie, before she is returning her attention towards me, and nudging a glass of wine into my hands with a look of concern apparent upon her features, "You sure you know what you're doing, there?"

"Honestly?"

"Preferably, yes."

"No," I admit, slumping back in the chair I occupy, and finding myself more than a little grateful that Donna willingly takes the seat across from me without a word, as though she without me having said a word that I need a moment or two to figure out how best to explain myself, "I didn't really have a conscious plan, now that I think about it."

"I could tell."

"And now you think I'm a complete moron?"

"Hardly," Donna corrects, pausing just long enough to manage a sip of her own glass of wine, before she is placing the glass on the small table that rests between our two chairs, and frowning a bit before she speaks once more, "I might not have been able to predict it, but I won't judge you for it."

"Am I allowed to judge myself?"

"Do you really think that's something that you deserve?"

"Probably," I admit, jiggling my wine glass just a bit so that I can fix my eyes upon the swirling liquid as though I truly believe it holds any shot at telling me the answers I need, "Aren't you the one that said I should do whatever I can to avoid getting involved with these people?"

"I am. But just because I might caution you against something doesn't mean I'd fault you for making a decision, regardless of whatever it is that I might have said."

"Sometimes, I think it would be easier if you did, Donna. Because otherwise, I'm not entirely certain I'll end up making the right decision."

"Did—did something happen?" Donna asks, her question causing me to flush, despite the fact that I know full well she does not intend to fault me, no matter how I choose to reply. For her part, she seems merely curious as to the nature of the answer I might give her, though I am not quite so foolish as to believe that she will not have some manner of advice or caution to give, depending on what that answer might be. And, although I am still more than a little reluctant to admit that I might not have been as 'in control' at the dinner as I might have wished I would be, I find that I am still comfortable enough to give Donna an honest answer, inasmuch as I can.

Yet again I am brought to the realization that I am remarkably lucky to have earned her as a friend, no matter my shoddy judgment in other areas of my life, as a whole…

"Nothing in particular," I finally manage, my brow furrowing just a bit as I taste the half-truth of the words on my tongue, and shake my head in an attempt at giving myself the courage to alter my statement to something more along the lines of what actually went down, "Only, he—he might have asked for my number. And I may or may not have given it to him."

"Well—that's—that's not so bad."

"I'm choosing to operate under the assumption he'll never actually use it."

"What if he does?"

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, what if he does actually call you?" Donna persists, leaning forward to place her elbows upon her knees, and fixing me with a look that is almost akin to pity, though I can tell she is doing whatever she can to avoid it, "What will you do then?"

"To be honest, I'm not really sure."

"Are you going to tell Rex?"

"God no!" I exclaim, startling myself a bit with the laugh that escapes in response to Donna's suggestion, though I am at least pleased to realize that she appears to be a bit amused over the prospect of my confession, as well, "I'm pretty sure he'd never let me out of his sight again if I did."

"Maybe that wouldn't be such a bad thing."

"I'm not too sure. He might get sick of looking at nothing but me for an extended period of time—"

"Something tells me maybe he wouldn't," Donna corrects, a soft smile crossing her features as she pauses just long enough to take another sip of her wine, while simultaneously lifting a hand to tuck a stray lock of dark hair behind her ear before going on, "It would take a blind man not to see how much he cares about you, Ellen."

"I know. I do, trust me. Maybe that's—maybe that's why I gave out my number, to begin with."

"How do you mean?"

"I mean maybe I was so foolish because the fact that Rex is temporarily missing in action is bothering me more than I want to admit," I confess, silently cursing the fact that my voice seems to crack, mid-sentence, in spite of my attempt at making the admission seem nonchalant. I know that I can't tell Donna the precise reason why his absence makes me so uneasy, even in the face of my all but certain awareness that if I did come clean, she would never be the sort to reveal what I told her to the wrong person. But even with my somewhat enforced silence on the matter, I find that I am not entirely able to remain silent in lieu of a more complete explanation, my mind scrambling for a moment to come up with a reason that will not hint at the truth, before I exhale in a rush, and choose to speak once more before I lose my nerve entirely.

"This sounds insane, but I don't think I'm entirely capable of acting rationally without him around, anymore."

"I get it."

"You do?"

"Definitely," Donna confirms, her gaze holding my own in spite of the renewed wave of uncertainty that washes over me, and causes my heart to stutter within my chest, "I feel the same way about Ope. If anything were to happen to him, I—"

"You don't know if you could go on."

"I know I couldn't. And even if you won't quite admit it, I think you feel the exact same way about Rex. It's pretty obvious he feels that way about you."

"But we aren't—Donna, we aren't married. Not even close," I protest, frowning a bit as even I am forced to realize that my statement seems forced—almost unnatural—no matter how much I may wish to deny it, "He's just—we're just friends. Good friends."

"Since when are good friends not allowed to have strong feelings when it comes to keeping one another safe?"

Aware that Donna has a point, no matter how much I may wish to deny it, I find I am only capable of managing a faint nod in response, my lips pursing as I allow myself to consider the implications of her words in full. I would be lying if I were to pretend that Rex was not important to me, even prior to the entire ordeal that prompted our relocation to Charming in the first place. But regardless of those feelings, and even in light of Tara's insistence that his feelings for me were slightly less than platonic, along with Donna's apparent concurrence, as well, I am not entirely capable of seeing what they do for myself…

No matter what I do, I cannot reconcile their suppositions with my own recollections of the interactions shared between Rex and myself, and that juxtaposition troubles me far more than I care to admit.

"I guess you're right," I finally admit, forcing a faint smile to my lips for Donna's benefit, before I am shifting my position slightly in the chair I occupy in an effort at becoming more comfortable, in spite of my still-agitated nerves, "I just—I was hoping for something a bit less—less—"

"Complicated?"

"Yeah."

"Good luck finding that," Donna quips, the laugh that we share prompting me to relax just a bit in spite of myself, while I take the liberty of downing the rest of the wine in my glass so that I can move to stand, and begin the trek towards the den for a refill while she calls after me with amusement all too apparent in her words.

"You may as well bring the whole bottle back out here, El. I have a feeling we're going to be at this a while…"

Even with the slight buzz ebbing around my head as a result of the liquor I have already consumed this evening, I would have been a fool to pretend I did not know she was right.

…

The following morning I find myself waking to the blinding quality of the sunlight streaming in through my bedroom window, a soft groan escaping as the brightness causes my head to pound, and forces me to burrow back beneath the covers so that I can curl into a little ball until the sensation abates. Of course, I am not quite so lucky as to have the ache go away immediately, knowing full well that it is entirely due to my over-consumption of alcohol the evening prior. But, regardless of cause and effect, I find that I am still poignantly aware of the fact that my symptoms are not likely to go away on their own if I remain curled up in my bed, another soft whimper leaving my lips as I take a deep breath to steel myself before I am flinging back the covers and attempting to sit so that I can swing my legs over the edge of the bed and place my feet flat upon the floor.

In spite of the renewed pounding I feel against my temples in response to the movement, somehow I find that I am capable of standing erect, and shuffling over to my bedroom door, one hand lifting to massage my skull while the other moves to turn the doorknob so that I can head out into the hallway beyond. Where before, the utter silence in the house may have been disturbing, I find that now, it is a bit more than just a relief, given that my head feels like it might explode into a thousand pieces at the slightest sound. And although every step I take down the hallway towards the bathroom is its own little piece of agony—although I know that it is my fault that I am feeling such a thing to begin with—I cannot quite bring myself to care about anything save for making it to the vanity cupboard, and finding the little bottle of Motrin I keep on hand for just such an emergency, a sigh of relief leaving me as I lean against the counter, and grab onto the bottle as though it holds the elixir of life.

Popping a few of the tablets, and swallowing them without even waiting the time it would take to fill up the glass that sits beside the sink with some water, I place the bottle back in the cupboard, and lean against the wall, my back slowly sliding down the paneling until I am seated on my bottom on the tile flooring, with my knees curling up instinctively towards my chest. Almost in the same motion, my arms wind around them, while my forehead comes to rest upon my knees, my tongue darting out to wet my lips as I remain in place in hopes that the pills I just downed will take effect soon. Though I might have appreciated the distraction of work, in my current situation, I am not entirely willing to regret the fact that I have one final day off to recover from last night's dinner.

Regardless of my unwillingness to do any more thinking as it pertains to my decision to give a practical stranger my phone number, I know I would be next to useless in the hospital at this particular moment, a heavy sigh escaping as I lean my head back until it thumps against the wall, in time with the faint chirping of my cell that I pick up on from where I have left it on my bedside table.

Damn…this means I actually have to move.

Groaning as I use my hold on the nearby countertop to haul myself back upright, and doing what I can to ignore the resultant pounding in my head that such an act provokes, I force myself to shuffle back down the hall towards my bedroom, my body almost eagerly sagging back onto the bed while I reach for the insistently buzzing device, and bring it to my ear to answer the call before it goes to voicemail. It does not entirely escape my notice that I was in such a hurry to stop the phone's insistent chirping that I did not even glance at the caller I.D before answering. But, no matter the slight buzz of anticipation that jumps through my nerves at the thought of exactly who might be on the other end of this call, I would have been a liar to pretend that I am not just a bit relieved when a familiar voice reaches my ears…

It seems I am wise enough to realize I am not entirely equipped to deal with my mysterious biker in my current state, and so the sound of Rex's voice is of far more comfort to me in this particular moment than I feel I truly deserve.

"Hey there, trouble. Miss me?"

"More than you know," I reply, using the hand that is not clutching at my phone to drag my fingers through sleep-tousled hair, and frowning a bit as I take in the obvious concern that colors Rex's ensuing response.

"Everything okay?"

"It—it's fine, Rex."

"You sure about that?" My would-be protector persists, his words causing a slight twinge of what I can only assume is guilt to tug at my heart, particularly as I know full well he may in fact be far too busy with whatever pulled him back to our former home town to be dealing with my own insecurities, "Because something tells me I'm not getting the full story, here."

"You are. I promise. Everything is fine," I assure him, hoping beyond hope that I seem at least halfway convincing, while simultaneously flopping backwards so that I am resting flat on my back on top of my mattress and still rumpled sheets, "I guess I'm just trying to wrap my head around you not being here, that's all."

"So you do miss me."

"Only if you promise you won't use my confession to your supposition against me at every opportunity you get."

"Scout's honor," Rex agrees, the apparent amusement he feels over my retort winning out, at least for the moment, over his concern for my well-being, and thus prompting me to grin a bit as well, in response, "Would it make you feel any better if I said I only anticipated being out of town for a few more days?"

"Maybe. Define 'a few', and you might get a more satisfactory answer."

"Three? Four at the most?"

"Oh. Okay."

"If you need me back sooner, you know you only have to ask, sweetheart."

"I know that. I do," I state, allowing my eyes to drift closed for a moment, in hopes that it will prompt the headache that seems all but determined to plague me for the entire day to go away, "But I also know that you wouldn't be where you are if there wasn't a damned good reason for it."

"That doesn't mean it's more important than keeping you safe. And sane, for that matter," Rex counters, the faint sigh that escapes him echoing across the line for a moment, and giving me full proof that in spite of how he may be better equipped at hiding his own troubles from me, that does not mean that they do not exist at all, "And, for the record, I miss you a hell of a lot too, kid."

"You always say the sweetest things—"

"I mean them. I'd be an idiot if I didn't admit to feeling some sort of reluctance over leaving you to deal with things in Charming on your own while I take care of this."

"Is that your way of saying you don't think I can take care of myself, Rex?" I inquire, unable to entirely hide the sudden note of doubt that seeps into the question, regardless of my desire to avoid it, "Because like I said. I'm fine."

"I take it you haven't seen any more of those guys we ran into at the gym, then?"

"I—no. I haven't," I fib, ignoring the renewed jolt of nerves that threaten to overtake me in response to my decision to lie to a man who has only ever tried to keep me safe, and doing what I can to persuade myself that it is the right decision, given the circumstances. I know, somehow, that if I confess to seeing Tig again—if I tell Rex that I actually attended a dinner at the home of one of the prominent figures in a likely biker gang—he will only see to it that he comes rushing back to Charming, no matter how pressing his current business may be. And so, even though a small part of me actually wants to come clean, if for no other reason than to assuage my own guilty conscience, I force myself to remain silent on the matter, the only sound on the line being the clearing of my throat as I take a breath before moving to reassure Rex that nothing is amiss.

"I doubt I'll have any further cause to see them outside of work from here on out."

"Well I for one think that might be cause for some relief," Rex begins, the suddenly determined cast to his tone giving me leave to entertain the briefest sensations of regret, and thus rendering me abundantly grateful that he cannot see my expression as I have absolutely no hope of masking my reaction to his words as it makes its way across my face, "You don't need any extra help getting into dangerous situations."

"Thank you for the vote of confidence."

"I'm not trying to bruise your ego here, kid. Just stating the facts."

"Do me a favor, then? Maybe keep some of those facts to yourself. As a doctor, my career is pretty dependent on that ego you're trying to chip at, whether you want to or not."

"Duly noted. Just so long as you promise you won't let that ego push you into anything you aren't ready for."

"I'll try my best," I promise, smiling a bit as I come to the conclusion that, bruises to my ego or not, he really is only acting in my best interest, "And I swear, I'm on my best behavior until you get back, okay?"

"I'm going to hold you to that," Rex teases, the muted sound of someone else's voice reaching my ears before I am once again distracted as he seeks to draw me back into our conversation in spite of what might have served as an interruption that gave me leave to question him about who he was with, "Take care of yourself, kid. And make sure you're ready to be stuck with yours truly as soon as I get back."

"That doesn't sound like anything I can't handle. And Rex?"

"Yeah."

"Hurry back. I'm not sure I can hold to my promise to stay out of trouble if your time away extends any longer than a few more days."

If nothing else, the honest to goodness laugh I receive in response to my request provides me with enough reassurance to end the call, and begin to make the effort to start my day officially, whatever misgivings I might have felt over keeping Rex in the dark as far as my recent decisions go falling to the back of my mind as I endeavor to focus on the present, instead.

Whatever may happen when he does find out the exact extent of my foolishness, I know that it will do me absolutely no good at all to dwell on it now.

…


	14. Blown Cover

It turns out that, even though I honestly doubted it was possible, the remainder of the time Rex needed for whatever he was doing in our home town actually goes by pretty quickly, mostly because I managed to convince Tara to allow me to take a few extra shifts at work. The prospect of having to rattle around my house, alone, with nothing to think about except Rex's absence, and my potentially faulty decision-making when it came to giving Tig my number is far more daunting than I would really like it to be. And so I find that I am almost ecstatic to be able to simply go about the minutiae of my job, such as it is, the time seeming to fly by until I realize that it is already two hours past my time to clock out for the day and I hadn't even noticed.

Scurrying off to my locker, I strip out of my scrubs and change back into street clothes in record time, the sound of the door to the locker room swinging open barely registering as I set to the task of gathering my things, and stowing them in my bag before slinging its strap across my shoulder. But before I am capable of turning around and making my way towards the door to the hallway beyond, I find myself stopped in my tracks, eyes going wide as I take in the figure that now stands before me.

"Rex?"

"The one and only," My unexpected companion confirms, extending his arms so that I can run into his embrace almost without a second thought, "A rather nice older nurse told me I might find you in here."

"Let me guess—Kara?"

"I think so, yeah."

"Remind me to buy her a drink one night," I proclaim, tilting my head back just enough so that I can look Rex in the eye, and lifting a brow as it occurs to me that he has deviated from our tentative plan for his return, "Thought you said you were going to wait for me at home?"

"I was. Or at least, I was until I realized the carnival was in town."

"The what?"

"The carnival. You know—rides, cotton candy—popcorn—the works," Rex explains, keeping an arm looped around my shoulders as he turns back to lead us both towards the locker room door, "Thought you might want to take a break from all your hard work to enjoy it for a few."

"You're serious?"

"As the grave. Come on, kid. Live a little. For me?"

"What exactly makes you think I'm not already living?" I inquire, squeezing into Rex's side as we maneuver through the door, and it squeaks shut behind us not long thereafter, "I could've been having the time of my life while you were gone, and you'd never know."

"Something tells me you weren't."

"How do you figure?"

"I seem to recall a phone conversation where you admitted to missing me."

"That doesn't mean I wasn't having fun, Rex."

"See, by my definition, it does," Rex counters, a grin toying with one corner of his mouth as he glances down at me, and sends me a wink that provokes a laugh before I can fully stop it, "And I think I'm required to rectify that situation, don't you?"

"If you say so."

"Oh, I say so."

"I don't suppose that really gives me much of a choice then, does it?" I surmise, unable to completely suppress my grin despite the fact that I know I am playing right into Rex's hands. In truth, I had half-hoped I would be capable of giving him a run for his money, at least for a while, if for no other reason than to even the playing field between us. But regardless of my own desires, it seems readily apparent that I will be unable to do exactly that, my relief over Rex's return far outweighing any thought I might have of trying to appear at least somewhat independent.

"It really doesn't, no."

"Can I at least go home and grab a shower beforehand, then? I'd hate to have you seen in public with me smelling like a hospital, you know."

"Honestly, it wouldn't bother me," Rex begins, almost automatically lifting the hand that is not secured at my hip in a gesture of almost immediate surrender as he takes in my incredulous expression, and seeks to remedy it as quickly as he can, "But if that's what you want, it's what you'll get."

"Thank you. Trust me, as soon as we get in the car, you'll probably agree I need it."

"That remains to be seen."

Unable to resist the smile that toys at the corner of my lips in response to Rex's apparent doubt regarding my claims, I settle for simply following along at his side as he leads us towards the main doors of the hospital, the solidity of his presence at my side doing far more to quiet my lingering apprehensions over what transpired while he was away than any phone call ever could. Of course, I still have not fully decided whether or not I should tell him of my interaction with Tig and the rest of the crowd that he seems so steadfastly determined to keep me away from, particularly as it would bring to light the very real fact that I have lied about my intentions to stay away from them in the first place. But before I can become too distracted by such thoughts, and their potential implications, I find that Rex is relinquishing his hold upon my shoulder in favor of heading towards the car, the hand that is not otherwise occupied with the key fab reaching up to slip his sunglasses over his eyes to protect them from the sun.

For now, I suppose, I can simply allow myself to savor the fact that he is home, and all the rest will just have to come with time.

…

Freshly showered, and with a slightly more reasonable outfit now that I know I will apparently be spending the bulk of my afternoon at the carnival, I find myself back in Rex's car once again, my gaze fixed on the passing scenery outside the passenger side window while a Rolling Stones song echoes softly from the speakers. I would be lying if I were to pretend this was not exactly what I had never known I needed, even in spite of the fact that I still harbor some doubts about attending a carnival, of all things, when I had always thought those were more for kids than adults. Still, I cannot even begin to find it within myself to complain, seeing as the simple fact of being with Rex is far more comforting than I probably deserve. And so I focus instead on the idle task of humming along to the tune that is currently playing, my head leaning back to rest against the back of the passenger seat while a contented sigh escapes my lungs.

"Feeling better already, I take it?"

"You could say that," I admit, turning my gaze from my cursory investigation of the goings on outside my window, towards Rex, himself, and offering him a satisfied smile before going on, "Are you ever going to tell me what on earth prompted this little outing in the first place?"

"I wasn't aware one needed an explanation to have a good time."

"You aren't. It just seems a little—"

"Out of character?"

"Sudden."

"Well I've never been accused of lacking the ability to be spontaneous," Rex quips, reaching across the center console to give my knee a light squeeze before returning his hand to the steering wheel as we approach the upcoming turn in the road, "Obviously if you're really not feeling this, we can do something else."

"No! No, it's more than fine, I promise! I'm just trying to decide if there's a deeper reason behind it than you're letting on."

"Maybe I'm just trying to lighten the mood."

"Did something happen? While you were away?" I ask, my brow furrowing just a bit as I detect the slightest hint of something aside from the near to constant enthusiasm that Rex has been trying to portray since he found me at the hospital. Almost as soon as the question escapes me, I find myself watching as he tenses, a muscle in his jaw jumping while his fingers flex around the steering wheel, and cause the leather to emit a tiny squeak of protest. And although some small part of me is half tempted to retract my question, if for no other reason than to avoid turning what had been a pleasant outing into a not so pleasant one, Rex beats me to the punch, his reply guarded, and just a little strained, despite how he is clearly making an effort to avoid that very fact.

"Is there any way I can persuade you to table this discussion until after we have some fun?"

"That bad?"

"It isn't good," Rex confesses, tilting his head to the side until I can hear the muted pop his neck gives in response, and simultaneously rotating the steering wheel so that the car can navigate the turn down the side road that will lead towards where the carnival is apparently being held, "But I don't want to ruin this."

"Don't you know me well enough by now to realize I'll just be worrying about it the entire time we're out, until you tell me?"

"You're really not going to let up on this?"

"No. I'm not."

"Alright then. What do you want to know first?"

"Whatever you feel comfortable telling me," I propose, hoping that by allowing Rex to dictate the direction of our conversation, it will put him at ease enough to be forthcoming. Of course, some very small part of me is almost tempted to allow him to postpone the inevitable, inasmuch as it would grant me a temporary reprieve from an event that clearly troubles him far more than he wants to admit. But the stubborn part of me—the part that pushed me into that alleyway and sparked the entire situation that brought us here in the first place—all but refuses to back down, my body shifting just a bit so that I can face Rex more directly even in spite of my seatbelt while I wait for him to reply.

"The people you—interfered with—rumor on the street is, they're still pretty riled up about what happened," Rex begins, a sudden huff of air escaping his lungs, and coming out in what amounts to a near-whistle between clenched teeth before he elaborates further, "My contacts, such as they are, say they've been digging around, trying to get information on who ratted on their boys."

"Meaning me—"

"Meaning you."

"Did it—did it seem like they had anything? Like they were close?" I question, silently cursing the way my voice shakes, and averting my eyes in the hopes that when Rex risks a glance my way, he will not see my fear written plainly upon my face. I know that if he does, it will only make his own worry even worse. And so I do what I can to resettle my expression into something carefully neutral before looking up once again, my tongue slipping out to wet my lips as I realize Rex has somehow pulled the car over to the side of the road without me even noticing.

"Not yet, no. And I'm going to make damn sure it stays that way. That's why I had to stay away a little longer than planned."

"Are we going to have to move again?"

"Not if I can help it."

"Something tells me if they want to find someone, they'll find them," I counter, folding my arms across my chest, and flinching just a bit in spite of myself as Rex reaches across the console and takes one of my hands in his own before he speaks.

"They are not going to find you, Rea. I promise you they aren't."

"How exactly do you plan to stop it? You said yourself they were still looking."

"And we've got an air-tight cover, here," Rex persists, threading our fingers together as easily as if he could do it blindfolded, and fixing me with a look that is nothing short of determined to get me to believe what he says is true, "Besides, you can't really think that I don't still have a few tricks up my sleeve, if worst comes to worst."

"Would you ever—would you ever consider going to someone here for help?"

"What, like the police?"

"No, I—I don't mean the police," I stammer, watching as Rex's brow furrows for a moment, until a dawning look of comprehension practically transforms his expression before my eyes as I go on, "I mean someone outside of the police department."

"Chibs, and those bikers you met at the hospital."

"From what I've heard, they've done this sort of thing, before—"

"Yeah. For a price," Rex snaps, his expression softening just a bit as he realizes I have withdrawn my hand from his in response to his harsh reply, "I don't want you anywhere near them, Rea, I told you that."

"I know. I do. But what if they could help? I'm not saying we go to them now, but if this—if it gets worse—if those people show up here—"

"Then I'll handle it. I'll get you out of it myself, okay?"

"Rex—"

"I will," He insists, once again reaching for my hand, and giving it a gentle squeeze as soon as he has it within his grasp, "I'm going to keep you safe, no matter what. And I'm going to do it without a gang of bikers."

Unable to do anything but nod in response to Rex's assertion, I glance down at our entwined hands for a moment, while my teeth chew idly at my lower lip. In spite of myself, I can feel the beginnings of tears stinging at the backs of my eyes, my free hand coming up to pinch at the bridge of my nose in an effort to stop them. But before I can make any attempt at either acknowledging Rex's statement, or rebuking it, I find that he is speaking once again, his tone significantly gentler as he reaches with his free hand to tuck his finger beneath my chin in order to persuade me to meet his gaze head on.

"We are going to get through this, Rea. You believe me when I say that, don't you?"

"I—I do."

"You couldn't have made that sound just a touch more convincing?" Rex teases, ignoring my rather obvious roll of the eyes in favor of relinquishing my hand and returning his attention to the road as he puts the car in drive and navigates us toward the side street that will lead to the carnival he is so determined we should attend. For a moment I simply watch his features while his attention remains upon the road ahead, the lingering jump of a muscle along his jawline giving me every reason to believe that there is something he is holding back. And although there is some part of me that would almost rather pretend I have not noticed anything at all, I find myself completely incapable of doing so, my sudden decision to make a mental note to ask more prudent questions at a later time settling my nerves just a bit, even in the face of the fact that doing so may just do more harm than good.

They say curiosity killed the cat, and I find that now, more than ever, I am hoping that saying is absolutely not true…

…

Regardless of my initial reservations, I find that the time Rex and I spend at the carnival is far more enjoyable than I might have initially believed, the steady presence of the sun beating down on our heads as we maneuver through the crowds almost soothing in spite of the heat it gave to the day itself. We have already indulged in some of the rides, of course, the strange sort of pleasure Rex seems to take in my shrieks and laughter having an eerily calming effect on my own mood, no matter how I still persist in putting up the front of reluctance each and every time he selects a new ride for us to try.

I suppose, if nothing else, keeping to old habits might be just what we need in light of the recent news he delivered what feels like mere moments ago.

"Cotton candy?" Rex asks me then, effectively startling me from my inner musings, and prompting me to lift a brow in silent inquiry before lifting my sunglasses just a bit so that I can look him in the eye without obstruction.

"You really are planning to go all out with this, aren't you?"

"Hell yes. It's not every day I get free reign to act like a big kid."

"I seem to recall a few occasions that indicate otherwise," I quip, gently nudging Rex with my elbow, and only just managing to dodge out of the way as he attempts a retaliatory jab of his own, "What? I'm not saying it's a bad thing—"

"Could've fooled me, kid."

"Fine. Cotton candy it is, then. Happy?"

"Hmm—moderately," Rex admits, slinging his arm around my shoulder with a grin that is nothing less than self-assured, and leading us over towards one of the booths selling elephant ears, cotton candy, and popcorn, "But don't even think about stealing any of mine, got it?"

"Sure, Rex. I'll keep that in mind."

"You'd better. I'd hate to have to toss you in the pool over there with that clown."

Glancing over to where Rex has just pointed, I find myself suddenly freezing in place as I recognize the now-familiar reaper stitched into leather on the backs of a small group of men standing in front of the dunk tank. Of course, I ought to have known that stopping so suddenly would have attracted Rex's attention, though that awareness was clearly not enough to stop me from doing so in the first place. And before I can come up with any sure method of deterring him from noticing the very thing I have, he is glancing over towards the dunk tank himself, his eyes narrowing as the easy smile he has been wearing since our arrival departs just as quickly as it came.

"Rex, come on. Let's just—let's just get some cotton candy, okay?" I plead, reaching for his hand on instinct, and trying to tug him back towards the cotton candy booth before he can do anything reckless, or call attention to our presence in some way, "I promise I won't make you take me to the dunk tank, after."

"What the hell are they doing here?"

"Acting like big kids, too?"

"Or causing hell wherever they go."

"Okay. Cotton candy time for you," I persist, giving Rex's arm a more convincing tug and this time succeeding in getting him to turn away from the bikers nearby in favor of moving to take our place in line, "Can't have you getting all hangry on me."

"Hangry? That's the descriptor you're going with?"

"Yep. Works for me."

"Glad someone's happy," Rex scoffs, remaining in his place in line beside me, though I am not blind to the fact that his eyes keep straying towards the dunk tank every so often as though he feels drawn to the sight by some inexplicable magnetic force, "You meant what you said when you told me you were done with them, right?"

"I—I did," I fib, hoping with all I have that the flush that rises to my cheeks beneath the weight of Rex's gaze will be attributed to sunburn, and not the fact that I am working closer and closer towards being caught in a lie, "And I take back everything I said about them in the car, as well."

"You don't have to take that back. You were just trying to help."

"Yeah, well, I probably should."

"No. No, you shouldn't," Rex states, finally turning his full attention towards me, and reaching for both of my hands in spite of the fact that the line we are standing in has moved forward just a bit, while we remain in place, "Don't ever feel bad about trying to find a way to get out of this yourself. It's one of the things I like the most about you."

"Oh really? Because I seem to recall you mentioning something to the effect of wishing I would learn to keep my nose out of it every now and again."

"But you never do. You're stubborn, kid. And as much as that may give me grey hairs before my time, I gotta respect it."

"Even when it gives you more trouble to deal with than I'm probably worth?" I inquire, quirking a brow his way, and finally allowing my features to relax into a smile as soon as I realize that whatever frustration that Rex felt just moments ago seems to be slowly ebbing away, "Seems to me you may want to talk to whatever god you believe in to make sure they know you aren't getting a fair shake."

"Never. You're stuck with me, kid, whether you like it or not. May as well get used to it."

In response to such a steadfast declaration of support, I want to do something—anything—to assure Rex of exactly how much it is appreciated, no matter how small and ineffectual such a gesture might seem in light of what he has already done to keep me safe. But before I even have the chance to determine exactly what I should do, I find myself once again frozen in place, this time by the sight of the group of bikers that had been at the dunk tank heading our way, the man walking out ahead of them sending me a startling smile before he addresses me, and thus blows all hope of my maintaining the tale that I have had nothing to do with him, or his friends, to hell in a mere second.

"Hey there, doll—been meanin' to call ya—"

Well, shit…

…


	15. Conflicts and Desires

Wincing as soon as I hear the words, I find that I am incapable of anything more than simply staring at the man who has just addressed me, my cheeks burning as I realize in mere seconds that whatever hope I have of keeping my interactions with him while Rex was away a secret are now long gone. I cannot bring myself to say anything, much less to look Rex in the eye as I register him tensing beside me as though Tig had approached with a full array of weapons in tow, instead of simply a devious grin. But it seems before I even get the chance to make some attempt at regaining my composure, I am robbed of the opportunity, the abrupt nature of Rex's sudden decision to grab my arm and drag me to stand behind him startling me, to say the least, and forcing me to simultaneously become aware of the fact that he has decided to take the liberty of using my own silence as leave to speak himself, instead.

"Why the hell would you be calling her?"

"Probably because she wanted me to, man."

"Like hell she wanted you to," Rex growls, extending an arm to keep me behind him in spite of how I finally manage to summon the wherewithal to attempt stepping around him to put my own thoughts forth in an attempt to head off what can only turn into a rather nasty fight, "You've got no business messing with her. Ever."

"Not messing with her if she wants it," Tig counters, the way his blue eyes drift towards me, as though he might be trying to deliberately provoke Rex's ire causing a spasm of dread to coil its way through my abdomen, before he turns back to his would-be adversary once more, "She gave me her number."

"Bullshit."

"It's not, Rex. It—I did give him my number," I stammer, trying my best to ignore the flushing of my cheeks as I realize Rex has turned slightly, in favor of getting a more direct look at my expression as though he thinks he will find any hint of deception as a result. In truth, it takes everything in my power to hold his gaze, when all I want to do after seeing the disappointment and betrayal in his eyes is look away. I hate that I have done this to him. That after all he has done to keep me safe, he is now faced with direct proof that almost everything he told me to do or not do while he was away has fallen on deaf ears. But before I can even begin to make amends for such a thing, I find that Rex is turning back to face Tig yet again, his gaze taking in the obvious self-satisfaction on the other man's face before he speaks.

"You're going to lose that number if you know what's good for you."

"Nah—I don't really think I will."

In response to the obvious defiance of his request, I find myself almost instinctively darting between the two men that seem all but determined to make this confrontation as ugly as possible, my attention fixed solely upon Rex as I reach out to place my hand, palm-flat, upon his chest. Dimly, I am also aware of the fact that one of Tig's companion's appears to be attempting to do the same to him, the end result gaining a little bit of distance between both of them, and thus granting me enough time to force myself to meet Rex's gaze while I speak, determination lacing my tone even as I simultaneously realize that the tension of this entire situation has caused my voice to crack.

"Leave him, Rex. Please."

"Give me one reason why I should."

"Because I'm asking you to. Begging you to. You don't—we can't do this. Not here."

"She's right, man. You won't win."

"Nobody asked you," Rex grinds out, attempting to get out from behind me, and finding the attempt thwarted as I reach down for his hand, and grab hold before he can make another move. Apparently stunned by the gesture, his attention once again shifts towards me, as though he is struggling to rationalize my deception with my obvious desire to keep him from doing anything reckless. And although I am still remarkably torn over my own feelings on the matter, I seize the moment presented by Rex's immobility to gently push him just a bit farther from Tig, only to end up flinching as the now-familiar voice reaches my ears from behind where I stand and threatens to throw everything to the wind in the process.

"Geez, man—you let her fight all your battles for ya?"

"Okay—enough!" I exclaim, whirling on the spot to face Tig directly, and doing what I can to ignore the almost appraising gleam that is so apparent in his blue eyes as I risk a step towards him, and hope that my expression is convincing enough to persuade him to back down, "This is ridiculous."

"From where I'm standing, he started it, doll," Tig protests, a half-amused smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he places a hand upon the shoulder of the man that has been attempting to hold him back, and gently moves him to the side so that he can look me over once, before going on, "Doesn't really seem fair that you're stuck with finishin' it."

"That's not what this is. We're leaving."

"Aw, c'mon, doll, I was only havin' a little fun—"

"I don't care. We're leaving," I repeat, turning on a heel before I can allow myself to become too caught up in the startling magnetism of Tig's gaze, and once again reaching for Rex's hand in spite of the fact that I can see from his expression that he would love nothing more than to move me aside, and go for Tig, himself, "We're leaving, Rex."

Mercifully, Rex does not protest against my apparent desire to get the hell out of here, though his gaze does stray back towards Tig one final time, as though daring him to attempt to have the last word. I would be a fool to pretend I did not know exactly how much this was costing him—turning away from a fight that he so clearly wanted to win. And the fact that he is turning away, simply because of my own fervent pleading only seems to add to my guilt over having lied to him in the first place, my lips turning down at the corners as I allow him to take the lead as we head back towards his car.

I know for a fact that I have not heard the end of this. Not by a long shot. But even so, I am at least somewhat relieved by the fact that the unintentional revelation of the truth did not result in a fight between a man I deeply care for, and one I can hardly understand…

No matter how capable I know Rex is at handling himself in a fight, the idea of him going toe to toe with Tig, and likely a good chunk of his companions as well is far more terrifying than I dare to admit.

…

As I might have predicted, the journey home is almost entirely silent, the brief glances I risk towards Rex throughout showing me that he is only holding on to control by a thread. A muscle in his jaw keeps jumping every so often, while his hands maintain a white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel. More than once, I attempt to begin a conversation, if for no other reason than to rip off the metaphorical band-aid before things can get too far out of hand. But every time I even come close to summoning the courage to speak, I find the gesture thwarted by another resurgence of my own cowardly nerves, my hands taking up the task of fiddling with the hem of one of my sleeves, as I settle for glancing idly out the window at the passing scenery, instead.

Before too long, though, I find myself startled back to some semblance of awareness by the realization that Rex has officially turned into the driveway of the place I have, miraculously enough, started to call home, my hand reflexively coming to rest upon the door handle so that I can exit the vehicle as soon as he puts it in park. Once again, it seems that my cowardice is winning out over a more rational line of behavior, though as I near the front door with my keys clutched firmly in hand, I cannot entirely bring myself to stop it. And while I am very much aware of the fact that Rex is following along behind me not that long after the sound of the driver's side door thudding to a close echoes through the air, I force myself to ignore it, instead choosing to head towards the kitchen as soon as I have passed through the door, if for no other reason than to reach into the cupboard for a wine glass, and venturing to the refrigerator for the wine, as well.

"You plan on telling me exactly what the hell that was all about?" Rex demands, shutting and locking my front door behind him, before heading towards the kitchen as well, and plucking the newly filled wine glass out of my grasp before I can even manage a single sip. Almost immediately, I become aware of the obvious concern in his expression, even as it mixes with something that seems more akin to actual anger than anything else. And although I know it will be futile, I find that I am powerless to ignore the instinctive urge to reach for the wine glass that is now being held just barely out of reach, my lips pursing into a frown for a moment before I decide I have no choice but to reply.

"I—I went grocery shopping with Donna while you were gone," I begin, rocking back on my heels, and reaching towards the counter to steady myself before going on, "We ran into Gemma while we were there."

"And this somehow has something to do with one of those—thugs—coming away with your phone number?"

"In a roundabout way, yes. She—God, Rex, she backed us into a corner. Told us to come to her place for dinner."

"You ate dinner with these people?"

"It didn't really seem like we had any choice! And I wasn't about to let Donna walk into something like that alone."

"Donna has Opie," Rex argues, placing the glass of wine on the counter beside where he stands, and running a hand through his hair not long thereafter, "Who the hell did you have, huh?"

"Pretty sure I had Opie as well."

"Really."

"Yes. Really," I confirm, eyeing the glass of wine that I am now craving more than ever to steady my nerves, and concluding that in spite of my instinctive need for it, I would perhaps be wiser to simply let it be, at least for now, "Unless you're suggesting he wouldn't have my back if I really needed him."

"Of course I'm not."

"Okay then. Point proven."

"No. No, not point proven," Rex hisses, startling me with the apparent vehemence in his tone, though with as quickly as I flinch away from him when he takes a step forward, I would be blind to miss the small flicker of regret that passes over his expression, "Jesus, Rea, do you have any idea what you've gotten yourself into?"

"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

"It means that you've already got one gang out for your blood, and I'd have thought you wouldn't exactly want to increase that number to two."

"Exactly how do you think Tig is going to suddenly decide he wants me dead?"

"Not him, Rea. His—crew."

"His crew," I repeat, unable to fully restrain the scoff that breaks free, even in spite of the fact that I know almost immediately that it will not win me any favors when it comes to proving the point that I did not make as grievous a misstep as Rex seems to believe, "His crew, as you put it, had ample opportunity to take me out if they wanted at dinner, and yet they didn't."

"Maybe they're just biding their time."

"Biding their time for what?"

"Waiting for you to do something to piss them off!"

"And how exactly would I do that?"

"Gee, Rae, I don't know—maybe by catching them in the act of doing something illegal," Rex retorts, holding out a hand to waylay my impending protest for just long enough to allow him to elaborate before I can get a word in edgewise, "It's not like they're the poster boys for moral, upstanding citizens of the year."

"Well, maybe I decided I'm done trying to judge people before getting to know them," I reply, ignoring Rex's rather obvious roll of the eyes, and choosing to finally duck around his larger frame to make another grab for my glass of wine, "I can't—I won't live like that, Rex. Not with everything that—that we've already lived through."

"So, you're—what? Just going to keep on acting like associating with a biker gang isn't one of the more reckless things you've ever done?"

"Probably not. I mean, you did probably take care of Tig ever wanting anything to do with me again just now."

"I, for one, am not going to lose any sleep over that," Rex quips, once again dragging a hand through his hair, and taking a few steps back while simultaneously watching me manage a sip of my wine, "You shouldn't, either."

"Well what's next?" I demand, frustration coloring my tone as I cross one arm over my abdomen, and fix Rex with a look carrying far more determination than I know I would be capable of were it not for the glass of wine now clutched tightly in my right hand, "You plan on telling me I have to cut ties with Donna and Opie, too?"

"I would never do that, Rea."

"Oh really. Because from where I'm standing, it kind of looks like you would."

As soon as I say the words, I regret them, of course, though my own rankled pride all but refuses to permit me to back down, even in the face of the flash of genuine pain that passes over Rex's features in response. I know, on some level, that dictating my every move is not something he would ever do. Not even if it meant he stood a fairer shot of keeping me safe from myself, in the process. But even with that awareness, the fact that he is absolutely refusing to see that I firmly believe my would-be new acquaintances do not truly present a threat only seems to fuel my own stubborn need to prove that I am not as foolish as he seems to believe, my expression softening just a bit as I make a hesitant step forward to place my free hand upon his arm.

"Rex, I—I'm sorry—"

"Don't be."

"Rex—"

"Don't be," He reiterates, glancing down at my hand, and exhaling in a rush until I am brought to the sobering realization that he is pulling away, and turning to face the counter rather than looking at me head-on, "It's fine."

"Except for the fact that it's not," I protest, remaining where I am despite the fact that I am fighting against the urge I feel to step forward and force him to look me in the eye, "I didn't do this to hurt you. You—you have to believe that."

"I do."

"You sure?"

"Of course I am," Rex says, still not turning to look at me at all, though I feel optimistic enough to sense that his posture has relaxed just a bit, whether he truly wanted to permit such a thing or not, "But I can't keep you safe if you insist on throwing yourself into the unknown without a second thought, Rae. That's not how it's gonna work."

"I know that."

"Do you?"

"I do," I acknowledge, pausing just long enough for another steadying sip of wine, before placing the glass on the countertop once more, and risking a step towards Rex not long thereafter, "And I'm sorry for—for giving in to old habits, again."

"You wouldn't be you if you didn't."

"Why am I not entirely convinced that you really believe that?"

"Probably because you've been doubting yourself ever since we came to Charming," Rex supplies, his fingers drumming on the counter top for a moment before I hear the sound of him inhaling a breath, and realize that he is finally turning to face me once again, "And that kills me, kid. You have to know it does."

"Why?"

"Why? You really have to ask that?"

"Considering that I just did, I think the safest answer here, is yes," I manage, somehow summoning a fraction of a smile as I realize Rex's expression has turned far more welcoming than it was just moments ago, "And anyway, I'm not really sure why it matters one way or another what I do or don't think about my own instincts."

"It matters because you used to be this woman who never took shit from anyone. And even though that woman still comes out to play every so often, she's hidden a hell of a lot more than she used to be."

"Is that your way of saying I've gone weak?"

"It's my way of saying you've lost a part of yourself since that night back home. And I'm going to fight like hell to help you get her back, okay?"

"That still doesn't explain why—why you're even doing it," I persist, hating the way in which I have suddenly started to tremble all over, as though the weight of Rex's gaze upon my frame is suddenly more powerful than I can stand. Where before I had wanted him to look back at me, now that he is, I am almost tempted to pull away, myself. But before I can make any sort of headway in terms of deciding whether or not to do exactly that, I find that I am all but floored as Rex steps forward until he can hold my face between the palms of his hands, his eyes boring into my own for a moment before he speaks in a voice that is barely above a whisper.

"You really don't know?"

In the wake of some sort of instinctive knowledge over what it is that Rex is prepared to do, I find that I am all but paralyzed as he closes the distance between us, and places his lips gently—almost reverently—atop my own, the warmth of the gesture catching me off guard and forcing both hands to move up to rest upon his chest. For a moment, I simply remain frozen, there, as though balancing the desire to push him away with a more fervent need to avoid causing him still more pain. And although I know, on some level, that I really should make a choice sooner rather than later, I find that I am spared the trouble, the sudden sound of my cell phone ringing from its place inside my jeans pocket prompting me to pull away from Rex in favor of turning to the side, and fishing it out of that pocket so that I can answer it before even registering the name flashing across the screen.

"Hello?"

"Ellen, it's Tara. Listen, if you're already involved in something, I understand, but—if you can come in to work tonight, we could really use you. Something—something happened at the carnival."

"What is it?" I inquire, risking a glance back at Rex, and noting the all too apparent relief that has taken over his expression as soon as I mouth the word 'hospital', and he has all the confirmation he needs to reassure himself that the person on the other end of the line is not the man he is trying so valiantly to keep me away from, "Tara, what happened?"

"A girl was raped, El. It—we could—we could really use your help."

"Okay. Okay, I'm on my way in," I reply, waiting just long enough for Tara's answering goodbye, before hanging up the call, and stowing the device back in my pocket so that I can turn to squeeze past Rex, and head towards the rack beside the door where I know I have stowed my jacket, hospital identification card, and car keys. I would have been a liar to pretend I was not all but trembling in relief that the call had absolutely nothing to do with Tig, or the men he associated with, regardless of how strong I had tried to pretend to be when keeping Rex from doing what he really wanted to do by starting a fight. Though I am nowhere near close to admitting it, particularly in light of the unexpected development that still has Rex standing motionless in my kitchen, I am more than a little terrified of what I would have done if Tara's call did have anything to do with the biker I know I would be better off trying to avoid…

And perhaps that is what prompts me to simply proceed to the door as though absolutely nothing has gone amiss, my words as I reach out a hand to take hold of the doorknob hushed, but nonetheless seeming to carry back to where Rex still stands, regardless.

"I need to go in to work—"

"We need to talk about this, Rae," He disagrees, finally seeming to garner the wherewithal to move, and grabbing gently at my free hand while I simultaneously open the door to head out, "I didn't—I don't think either one of us can pretend this never happened."

"I need to go in to work," I say again, the flush that now burns upon my cheeks almost robbing me of the ability to look Rex in the eye, though I somehow manage to force myself to do so regardless of the discomfort brought about by doing so. In truth, I have no idea how to even begin to justify or interpret what has just happened between us, my heart pounding away against my ribcage as I search Rex's features for any indication of what exactly I am supposed to do now that it has happened. In the past, I have always looked to him for advice. For guidance when my own good judgment went awry. But now, I seem capable of finding nothing more than an almost fervent wish that I will hold off on leaving, in favor of staying with him, my head shaking for a moment as though to rid my mind of a dense fog before I am pulling away from a man that now seems to be a practical stranger, and taking my first step out of the front door.

"We can talk later. I promise, I just—I need to go."

Before Rex can make any attempt at holding me back or saying another word, I force myself to jog back down the driveway and head towards the car, gooseflesh pricking against my skin as I struggle to redirect my rampaging thoughts towards more neutral ground. I am nowhere near prepared to even begin to acknowledge what has just happened, my lips still tingling in response to the weight of Rex's sudden kiss. And so, instead of ruminating over what the hell it means, or why I feel nothing but an almost crippling sense of guilt for even allowing it to happen to begin with, I force my attention to the task of starting up the car and pulling out of the driveway, instead, my teeth chewing at my lower lip almost constantly as I maneuver down the road that leads towards the main street through town without a single backward glance.

Right now, a young girl's needs after one of the most traumatic events she will likely ever experience simply have to outweigh my own conflicted emotions, or I have no business going in to work at all.

…...


	16. Healing Begins

"Hey. You good?" Tara asks, effectively jolting me out of my apparent reverie as she catches up to where I have decided to stand, leaning back against the railing at my back with my head tilted back to look up at the blinding fluorescence of the lights above. In the wake of my arrival at the hospital, and the rushed detailing of events from Tara while I shrugged out of my street clothes, and donned my scrubs instead, I find that I have somehow been denied the ability to breathe, whether by contemplation of what has just happened to an innocent young girl, or of what happened prior to my arrival, I cannot completely tell. And now, while we wait for Tristan to be wheeled back from radiology for the barrage of tests they want to run, the emotions provoked by it all has become near to overwhelming, no matter how fiercely I may want to prove to not only my colleague, but myself, that I can handle this job, regardless of what comes our way.

I cannot even bring myself to look at Tara, even though I am well aware of her presence at my side, and the almost imperceptible nod that I give clearly doesn't hold any more sway with her, than it does with me.

"If you want, I can bring someone else in. Someone else that's on call."

"No. No, don't," I protest, forcing myself to look Tara in the eye, and trying to ignore how the concern in her gaze seems like a knife to the heart, "It's not all to do with-with Tristan, anyway."

"Something happen at home?"

"You could say that."

"And would this something have anything to do with Rex?"

At my lack of verbal reply, I realize Tara has likely already started to draw her own conclusions related to exactly what it is that has me so out of sorts, her frown finally serving as enough to push me to deter her from anything that paints Rex in an unfavorable light. No matter how much I appreciate the idea that comes to mind that I only have to say the word, and she will have words with Rex, herself, I would be lying to say I want to give the man any more of a reason to think I have taken leave of my senses. And so, regardless of how badly I wish that I was the sort to be able to easily maintain a stoic silence, I resist the urge to even try, my tongue darting out to wet my lips for just a moment before I endeavor to reply.

"It does, yes."

"What happened?"

"He, um...he kind of found out about something I did while he was gone, and he wasn't too pleased."

"Wow. What did you do?"

"Promise you won't judge?"

"Of course," Tara affirms, her brow furrowing as she takes in my obvious hesitation, though to her credit she says nothing, choosing instead to wait until I am capable of summoning the wherewithal to come clean on my own. Knowing her own history with the men in question, I am of course fully aware that her promise to withhold judgment may not be anything I can reasonably hold her to. I cannot fault her for that. Not really, no matter how my cheeks have started to burn in preemptive embarrassment over what it is that I am about to disclose. But, before I can lose my nerve entirely, I find that I am straightening from my former position leaning against the wall, clearing my throat in hopes that it will allow my voice to be heard even in spite of the knot I can feel gathering at the base of my throat.

"I went to dinner at Gemma and Clay's."

"You what?"

"Donna and I bumped into Gemma at the store, and everything just kind of mushroomed from there."

"Well, that certainly sounds like Gemma. Dragging people into her crap without a thought of whether they want to be involved or not."

"It wasn't really like that," I claim, aware of the skepticism so apparent in Tara's expression, and choosing to press on before she can find any window to question what must seem to her like an egregious lapse in judgment, "I mean Gemma was-well, she was Gemma, but the others weren't that bad."

"Opie went with you?"

"He did."

"That's something, I suppose," Tara acknowledges, taking note of my own inquisitive expression in the wake of her statement, and placing both hands inside her white coat pockets before going on, "He's-he's one of the good ones."

"Yeah. I know."

"So, how exactly did Rex find out? Something tells me you didn't exactly come clean the minute he got back."

"No. No, I didn't," I confess, glancing down at the tiling beneath my feet, and scuffing the toe of my shoe against the linoleum for a moment while I search for the words that will do the best job of explaining exactly how everything played out, "We went to the carnival, and bumped into-into some of the guys."

"Jesus."

"That's not even the best part," I press, managing a somewhat genuine laugh as the memory of my own stupidity provokes amusement, whether such a thing is truly wise or not, "He found out I gave one of them my phone number."

"Wow," Tara begins, exhaling around her apparent shock, her lips thinning into a line for only a moment before she reaches out to place a gentle hand upon my arm in an effort to persuade me to follow along beside her as she walks toward the opposite end of the hall, instead of simply remaining where we are. In spite of what I had feared, I can tell, somehow, that she does not find fault with me for my decision, no matter how foolish it may have been in reality. And that realization is enough to allow me to simply wait in silence for her to speak further, my eyes darting towards her face for a moment in time to note that whatever she may feel about my sanity, at the moment, she is not allowing even a hint of it to show in her expression.

"Who was it?"

"What?"

"Who was it that got your number?" She asks, the question sounding genuinely curious, regardless of how she may feel about my entire situation as a whole, though the slight smile that tugs at one corner of her mouth as soon as she takes in my answering expression has her making amends almost immediately, "Sorry, I just-I guess you could consider this me wanting to see if my initial hunch was on the money."

"You have thoughts already?"

"You could say that."

"But you're not going to tell me what they are," I surmise, registering Tara's almost immediate nod in confirmation, and shaking my head in resignation, though the gesture lacks any real animosity towards her, at all, "I guess that means I'd better just hurry up and confess."

"That might be wise, yeah."

"Tig."

"What?"

"It was Tig," I manage, aware of Tara's obvious surprise, and choosing to steamroll ahead with my confession before she can say anything to stop me, "I don't know, Tara, I mean he just-we were talking at dinner, and it just sort of happened."

"Wow. I guess I can see why Rex was pissed," Tara says, her expression shifting as soon as she says the words, and realizes that I am now chewing at my lower lip in response, "Hey, no, I didn't mean it like that. Just, given how protective he is over you, it doesn't take much to guess that Tig is not the man he'd be likely to want hanging around."

"That's an understatement."

"You didn't-nothing ever came of it, right?"

"Of what? Me giving Tig my number?" I ask, frowning as I realize that, in order to answer Tara's question, I will have to admit to something that is far more disappointing to me than it really should be, "No. And after what went down at the carnival, I doubt anything ever will."

"You know that that's probably a good thing, right?"

"Honestly? I'm not so sure."

"Well, it is," Tara insists, surprising me by reaching for my hand, and giving it a small squeeze before going on, "And I stand by what I said. If you need to go home-"

"I can't."

"Why not? You can't tell me Rex is still that mad at you."

"It's not-it isn't about that," I murmur, aware of the slight lift of Tara's brow, and doing my best to direct my gaze to the hallway ahead of us in hopes that it will give me the courage to tell her what I know will help all of this fall into place, and explain my need to stay at work, no matter how troubling our current case may be, "It's more."

"More what?"

"He kissed me."

"Tig?" Tara gasps, her expression only growing more incredulous as she takes in my almost immediate shake of the head, and comes to the only other conclusion that is possible, given the situation, "Rex."

"Yep."

"Wow. Well, I'd be lying if I said I didn't see that coming."

"I think I'd rather have you lie, then," I quip, reaching up to drag a hand through my hair, and exhaling in a rush as Tara and I come to the partially opened doorway to the patient wing, just in time to see that our patient has just been wheeled back into her room, "She's back."

"She is," Tara confirms, most likely taking my change of the subject as a signal that I would be much more comfortable if we shifted the nature of our conversation back towards something safer, though even I am hardly blind to the fact that the subject of a young girl's rape is hardly safe at all. Regardless of that realization, however, I am more than a little grateful that my companion simply follows along with my reluctance to give what happened with Rex and Tig any further consideration, at least for the time-being, her expression settling into something far less inquisitive as she gestures for me to join her in heading towards Tristan Oswald's room, while two figures that can only be her parents step outside of its doors.

For now, at least, I have found a decent enough reason to bury myself in my work, and saying anything other than that I am grateful for the reprieve, such as it was, would be a lie.

…

Five hours, and fifteen missed calls from Rex later, I find myself seated in a chair just inside the doorway of Tristan's room, jotting notes on the small pad of paper I have taken to keeping inside my white coat pocket while my patient sleeps. I would have been a liar to pretend that I am at ease, here, particularly with the way in which I am under no illusions that my presence is a desirable thing. Tristan hasn't admitted to such a thing, of course, and I really doubt that she would, her soft-spoken nature at odds with the idea of any outright signs of blunt truth. But her mother, though-that woman is another story entirely, and although I can fully understand the protectiveness that makes her reluctant to allow her daughter to be in anyone's company save her own, that does not mean that a bit more acceptance of what it is that Tara and I are trying to do here would not go a long way.

Tristan still has not said a single word about what it is that she went through, and whether that is because she truly cannot remember, or because she has been told to keep her silence is as yet, unknown.

Frowning in spite of myself as the thought comes to mind, I glance up from my haphazard scribblings in time to note that Tristan is shifting a bit in her sleep, her brow furrowed while a soft moan escapes between parted lips. It would take a fool to remain oblivious to the fact that she is in pain, even as she rests, the bruising around her cheekbone, and along her torso likely making finding any sort of comfortable position on the hospital bed impossible, to say the least. And before I am fully aware of it, I am stowing my notepad back in my pocket and moving towards her bed from the chair beside the door, my movements slow enough to hopefully avoid scaring her if she happens to open her eyes before I can give any hint of my approach at all.

"Hey. Hey, it's okay," I murmur, resisting the urge to reach a hand out to place upon Tristan's arm, and compensating by curling my fingers around the railing of the bed, instead, "Tristan?"

"Mom?"

"No, sweetheart. Your mom went to grab an overnight bag from home. I'm Doctor Shore."

"Oh. I-I remember," Tristan mumbles, sleep, and the cocktail of pain medications she's on causing her words to jumble together a bit, though the gaze she turns my way is anything but bleary, "You're working with-with Doctor-"

"Knowles."

"Tara."

"That's her," I nod, managing what I hope will be a genuine smile, despite the unease that coils in my stomach as I watch Tristan shift a bit on the bed, and wince almost immediately in response to the pain brought about by the movement, "Is there anything I can get you? Some water, maybe, or a snack?"

"No. No, I'm good, thanks."

"You sure? Because I have it on good authority that the lady working in the kitchens this time of night makes a mean chocolate pudding."

"I'm sure," Tristan repeats, somehow finding a small smile to give me, though given everything she has endured, I hardly feel as though I deserve it, "You don't have to stay with me, you know."

"I know. I want to."

"Why?"

"Why?" I muse, glancing down at the edge of her bed that is not blocked by the railing, and then turning my attention back towards her with a raised brow, only to find that her slight nod of permission for me to sit there is far more freely given than I might have anticipated, "Maybe because I can't say that I know how you're feeling, but I do know that it's important you know you're not alone."

"I know. My-my mom and dad told me that."

"I'm sure they did. And it's amazing that you have them both by your side in this. But Tristan, sometimes we need someone we can talk to about anything we want. And sometimes, our parents are not those people."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that, sometimes, we need to be able to say what's on our minds without having to worry about what people will think of us when we do," I explain, locking eyes with Tristan, and noting that she seems to waver on that thin line between agreeing with what I have said, and refusing to acknowledge it out of fear of somehow disappointing her parents in the process. I know exactly where she's coming from, on some level, though I hold off on telling her as much out of concern that it will seem insincere. Above all, I know that if Tristan even begins to suspect I am simply pretending, or telling her what she wants to hear will only push her further away. And so, I opt for leaving any and all personal feelings or experiences out of it, my breath coming out slowly through the nose, before I take the reality of Tristan's intent gaze upon me as leave to continue once more.

"It's not always easy doing that with our parents."

"Is-is that your way of saying I can talk? To you?" Tristan questions, something in her voice giving me the faintest reasons to believe that she might actually take me up on my offer, so long as I can find some way of making good on it while her mother is away. Of course, I am not blind to the inherent dishonesty in the act, particularly in light of what I may have to do to ensure I can, in fact, talk to my patient without outside interference. But before I can even attempt to reply in the affirmative, I find the effort rendered futile, my attention, and Tristan's as well, snapping toward the door leading out to the hallway beyond as the sharp sound of heels clicking on the linoleum grabs our attention, and I find that my efforts at providing reassurance have just been found out.

"You won't be needing to do that, sweetheart. I can take over for the doctor from here."

Though I know standing toe to toe with Tristan's mother would hardly be a wise choice, somehow, in light of the appearance of the other figure I see standing just outside the door, I am almost tempted to do exactly that…

Anything would be better than admitting defeat and facing Gemma Teller once again.

…


End file.
